


What You Can't See

by darkmagess



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awesome Lydia, Awesome Peter, Awesome Sheriff Stilinski, Banshee Lydia Martin, Case Fic, Dark Allison, Darkness Around The Heart, Derek Has Feelings, Derek Has Issues, Derek has PTSD, Ensemble Cast, First Kiss, Gen, Hurt Stiles, Kidnapped Derek, Kidnapped Stiles, M/M, Monster of the Week, Post-Episode: s03e12 Lunar Ellipse, Sassy Peter, Scott Has Control Issues, Sensory Deprivation, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles kisses first, Torture, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 54,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkmagess/pseuds/darkmagess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new threat comes to Beacon Hills, putting all its supernatural inhabitants in danger. A true alpha and banshee are rare and valuable quarry, but Stiles and Derek are the easiest targets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. October 9

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Незримое](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12041052) by [greencrayon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greencrayon/pseuds/greencrayon)
  * Translation into Español available: [Lo Que No Puedes Ver](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13024071) by [Lostwolfofwinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostwolfofwinter/pseuds/Lostwolfofwinter)



> This story takes places between 3A and 3B. 
> 
> It occurs in the same universe as [On the End of the Line](http://archiveofourown.org/works/940776), although it's not necessary to that.
> 
> It also assumes that the Derek's experiences of abuse as described in [Only Human](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1013449) and [Gently](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1020310) are true, although those stories are not part of this universe, so those particular conversations between Stiles and Derek have not happened.

"Attention, shoppers. Please bring your purchases to the front, the Save Mart will be closing in 30 minutes."

Derek glanced up at the announcement and then quickly checked his surroundings for anyone nearby. When no one so much as glanced in his direction, he tentatively brought the package of steaks up closer to his face and inhaled. It smelled, as it should, of flesh and blood, but something the tiniest bit off, too. Not putrid, not that far, but stale and unsavory. He switched the package for another and repeated the test. Satisfied, he dropped the flat-irons in his basket and headed for the fresh fruits and vegetables. Finding acceptable offerings _there_ would be . . . He glanced at his watch. Twenty-five minutes til closing. Well, he'd see how far down the list he could get.

Between the baking aisle and the cereal, something touched his senses, setting off alarms, and he stopped dead, suddenly alert.

A woman pushed her cart around the end of the cereal aisle, its one bad wheel dragging across the linoleum floor. Behind him, back down among the meat coolers, a young man muttered to himself about the bacon he was supposed to be finding; a couple collected sugar and flour, tearing their shopping list to mark each item as they found it. Derek scowled, unsure what had raised his hackles so suddenly. Everything seemed normal, these people harmless.

His senses worked strangely that way, mixing inputs, creating impressions—sense-emotions—that were more than their component parts. Maybe the woman hadn't liked the look of him, and he'd caught her vibe. Derek waited a breath and then moved on, but the sense of unease burrowed in. It felt . . . like being watched.

He tried to concentrate on the bell peppers—notoriously bad at Save Mart—but the tightness between his shoulder blades only got worse. As he moved between displays, he glanced up and around, trying to make the motion look casual. He was alone. His _eyes_ told him he was alone. The crawling sensation along the back of his neck told him he was not, and he fought the urge to shift out his claws.

If his eyes were liars, perhaps something else . . .

Derek shifted his focus as he left the produce section deliberately unhurried, despite his quickened, shallow breathing. He _listened_. Thankfully, the store was nearly empty. As it was, the layers of the soundscape unfolded themselves with weight. The background hum the AC unit took on tones, like a pipe organ groaning in disunity. The fans cut through the air with distinct chops and a whirr of motors. Shoppers spoke to one another. A man laughed, and someone tossed a can into a cart, metal impacting on metal.

Heartbeats, heartbeats.

The busted wheel on the cart, dragging rubber along plastic, grinding itself away with a high pitched squeak. A low jangle of bells. And then the suddenly piercing beep of the register taking in a scan. Derek flinched around the eyes at that, but kept walking toward it. Of course the only open lane would be the farthest away.

He glanced down each aisle as he went, but no one so much as looked at him.

He registered movement out of the corner of his eye and quickly spun to check the space behind himself. Nothing. His heart pounded, and he curled his empty hand into a fist to calm the itch. As he turned to keep walking, lavender drifted through the air. Light, ephemeral. He turned back around and stared down the length of the store, then picked out heartbeats. There was no one within twenty feet. No one to carry the scent of lavender.

Derek swallowed, his frown deepening, and he rushed to stand in line, to escape the sense of wrongness making his heart do flips. As the checker bagged his things, it came to him again, lavender petals dying in the sun, only now choked with sweet rot and—he sniffed out of instinct—lamb fat.

His eyes went wide, and he snatched the receipt from the startled checker’s hand, nearly forgetting a bag in his rush.

It couldn’t be.

_Couldn’t be._

Derek threw fearful, worried glances over his shoulder as he jogged from the store. Once outside, he loosed his senses wide and hunched from the darkness, or from the things that hide in darkness. Nothing, as far as he could tell, was following him, but he hadn’t been able to hear anything inside, either. Still his instincts howled, paced, bared their teeth. He held himself back from bolting, but if he was _right_. . . Fear splintered through his limbs, and he turned around, scanning the parking lot but still heading for the Camaro. Empty. The shopper in line after him trundled out with cart, but that was all.

Bells jangled behind him, and he spun again, this time letting his claws come. More nothing. Sounds from nowhere. Scents that should not be. His heart raced. Panting, he checked the distance to his car, and, feeling like a fool, he let himself run.

He tossed the bags in the passenger seat, slammed the door, and set the locks. Then turned to check the back seat, touching it to make sure they were as empty as they appeared.

Derek sighed out through his nose, mouth still pressed into a scowl, and sank into the seat as he righted himself. He felt his pulse pounding in his hands, and he gazed up, trying to concentrate on his breathing. Each second that no one emerged to smash his window or windshield, the fear settled.

As he pulled out of the lot, he cursed, first at his fear, then at himself for giving in. It wasn’t possible. For god's sake, they weren’t even real.

He took the turn down Devon, then the first left after Greenvale Park toward his new apartment, glad of the respite it gave him from the loft's painful memories. He sat for a moment in the parking lot just . . . waiting. He shook himself, grabbed his things, and went inside, hurrying a little, unable to entirely quell the cold fingers on his neck.

 

 

Once in the apartment, he dropped the bags and locked the door. After a second, he added the dead bolt. After another second of impatient frowning, he slid the little chain lock in place, too. Derek glanced over to the wall of sliding glass windows that had sold him on the place and quickly threw the curtains shut. It helped. Some. He backed into the center of the room, assessing, overactive fear pressing in. Everything remained still. The apartment smelled new, of fresh paint and cleaner. Nothing more.

After a further minute of vigilance, Derek sagged and let himself take care of the groceries.

If it had just been the lavender, that would have been one thing. Some passer-by's perfume or the scent of a candle carried by AC had blown into his path. But the bells. The _bells_. Twice, the discordant shake of jingle bells. Lavender and bells . . .

He shuddered and shoved the bed up against the wall of the living room. It felt safer having a wall at his back. With no one around to demand explanations, he could let himself have that.

 

***

 

October 10, 2011

 

He woke up with the dawn as exhausted and empty as when he’d laid down, forcing himself through the motions of his morning run. After a while the fog of tiredness burned away. His muscles felt warm and alive with use, and it was meditation. He focused on his breathing, his mind settled.  It wasn't until Derek was returning through Greenvale that the rhythm of his running faltered.

 The small hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He cast about sharply, suddenly more aware of his surroundings than he'd been in miles. The only person looking at him was a woman running the other way on the path. She smiled slightly, glancing him up and down, but never slowed. Even after she was gone, the feeling of being watched remained. His body screamed " _exposed_ , _hunted, hide!"_

 _Shrung._ Bells.

He didn't think—couldn't think—as his primal self took hold, and he ran, all purpose and terror. Ran at the edge of inhuman; outpaced his heartbeat. Ran to the apartment building and up the stairs unable to wait for the elevator, and locked the door as soon as he was inside.

He leaned his weight against it, panting more from fear than exertion. After a second, he beat his fist against the door in frustration and wondered if, maybe, he was going a little crazy—if coming back had been a mistake. Maybe Beacon Hills held too many terrible memories and sorrow. Maybe he’d made up the lavender and the bells.

They couldn’t be real. Couldn’t be here.

Except that it could. Stiles, Scott, and Allison had turned on the nemeton—had called out to the supernatural, and it was only in its nature for the darkness to answer.

If this wasn’t just him going crazy . . .

Derek scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed.

 

***

 

_“Barry Fairbrother’s dead,” panted Ruth Price._

_She had almost run up the chilly garden path—_

_Shrung._

Derek glanced up suddenly from his book and stared at the curtains, still drawn across the windows.

_Shrung._

_Shrung._

Distantly, faintly, the jangle of bells. He turned his head toward the front of the apartment building and tracked the sound as it moved closer, his heart pounding a little faster with the each approaching rustle.

When it passed into the building, he tossed the book aside and sprang up, adopting a wide, steady in the middle of the apartment. For a moment, the sound stopped. And then it returned, closer, with the regular rhythm of a footfall. He tensed and shifted out his claws in anticipation. It was definitely coming down the hallway. If he was lucky, maybe they wouldn’t know where—

Derek frowned. Behind the bells he could hear another, more familiar sound—a heartbeat. He inhaled, scenting the air.

 _Fuck_.

Stiles. In the same hallway.

 _Fuck fuck_.

_Shrung._

It might have followed him. What was he even _doing—_

As both bells and heartbeat came to a stop just on the other side of the door, Derek darted forward, throwing the locks with a quick flick and ripping the door open. He grabbed Stiles by the closest thing he could get his hands on, flung him inside, and slammed the door and locks closed. He pressed himself against it.

"Are you okay?" he hissed over his shoulder.

Stiles gaped at him as he picked up the cardboard box he'd been carrying. “You mean aside from the new bruise I'm gonna have?” He glanced at his arm in indignation.

“Shh.” Derek held up a hand to quiet him and closed his eyes to concentrate on listening to the hallway outside.

Stiles stared at him, exasperated, and set the box down on the kitchen counter. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Something inside the box jangled.

Derek jerked his head around to look at it, scowling. “What’s in that?”

Stiles looked between Derek and the box, confused.

“Well . . . in case you haven’t noticed, it’s Halloween,” Stiles started slowly. He reached into the box cautiously, keeping his eyes on Derek, and lifted out an orange and black wreath of bells. “And I figured you probably wouldn’t decorate, because, well . . .” He motioned with his free hand around the very white, very empty apartment.

Derek exhaled sharply through his nose and stopped pinning the door shut with his weight, tension and fear leeching out of him. _A wreath of bells._

Stiles set the wreath aside and reached for a few more things. “I also brought you some of these”—he held up bat, Frankenstein, pumpkin, and Dracula posters—“which I found in the attic and are totally classic. Also, cups, plates, silverware—"

“I have cups,” Derek broke in, "and plates," but Stiles placed each item on the counter with a flourish anyway, ignoring him.

“And,” he lifted a small potted cactus from the bottom of the box and placed it down with ceremony.

Derek lifted an eyebrow at him.

“From Isaac,” he supplied. “I think it might be some kind of message. Not sure. Didn't wanna ask.”

Derek looked over the collection, bemused. “You came here to . . . decorate. For Halloween.”

Stiles flailed his arms. “Hello? Yes. Did I not just say that? I mean, this has to be the greatest time of year for you, right? You can do whatever you want. Wolf out in public. No one will care! Greatest costume ever. How can this not be your favorite holiday?”

"It used to be." Memories he'd rather not relive clouded at the back of his mind, but he pushed them aside and focused on the present, on Stiles standing between his kitchen and living room giving him a suspicious look. Derek huffed and gave him a small grin. "What?"

"Nothing." He turned and surveyed the apartment. "Also, I wanted to see your new place." Stiles gave it a slower-than-necessary once over, nodding to himself before turning back to Derek. He hooked a thumb over one shoulder. "There's a bed in your living room."

"I know."

Stiles lifted his eyebrows in question, and Derek sighed. "If I put it in the bedroom, the living room would be empty," he offered a half-truth, hoping Stiles would let it go. It crawled on his skin like spiders when he couldn't see an exit, and after two sleepless nights, he hadn't had a choice.

"Or you could buy a chair."

"Is this really why you came here?"

Stiles's chin lifted defiantly. "Yes. Only, since you threw me around like a god damned doll, now I'm thinking maybe something's up." He motioned toward the door and then crossed his arms. "So . . . you wanna tell me what that was all about?"

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose as he collected his thoughts, trying to think of a way to make it sound less stupid. He pressed his hands to the counter by the sink.

Stiles moved to the other side of the counter and took a seat on one of the barstools.

Derek could feel his gaze, interested, and the emotions coming off him were less charged with anger than he'd expected, and more with worry.

"I think—" Derek began. "I think there's something new in town. Something . . . I didn't even know was real."

"What happened?"

Derek glanced up at him.

"I was followed. Twice. I couldn't see it, but . . ." He looked Stiles in the eyes. "I could feel it. Like, when you know you're not alone in a room."

Stiles leaned closer. "You said you couldn't see it, but what about other stuff? Could you hear it? Smell it?"

Derek nodded. "That's—exactly. In the grocery store last night and in the park this morning. I smelled lavender. And I heard"—his eyes cut over to the wreath—"bells."

Stiles mouthed the words lavender and bells and frowned at him, shaking his head. "So . . . what does that mean?"

Derek huffed a derisive laugh as he stood up straighter. "It means . . ." He felt his face color a little in embarrassment. "It means hekaloi."

Stiles squinted, his mouth falling open as he repeated. "Heka-wha?"

Derek shook his head and turned away, pacing toward the door as his face burned hotter. This was stupid. So stupid. "It's a . . . nursery rhyme. It's not real—just a boogeyman." He turned back toward Stiles. "Something my mom used to scare us into going to bed or cleaning our rooms. Do what I say or the hekaloi will take you away."

"But you didn't think it was real."

Derek tossed his arms up. "Why would a fairy tale be real?"

Stiles gestured at him with both hands. " _Werewolves_ are real!"

He gave him an exasperated look. "And the Tooth Fairy _isn't_! So, no, I didn't think it was real . . . until last night."

Stiles's gaze fell on the Halloween wreath he'd brought. His eyes grew wide as he made the connection. "You thought there was one in the hallway with me," he said softly.

Derek lifted one shoulder in a shrug and looked down. Stiles's heartbeat fluttered, and when Derek glanced up at him, the only word for the fleeting look on his face was _fond_. In an instant it was gone. Stiles started tapping his long fingers against the back of his hand thoughtfully.

"Did the rhymes say what they wanted? I mean, why they would take you away?"

 _Yes._ Derek's stomach dropped out, and he felt the same shiver of fear that had him pushing his bed against the wall for the simulation of safety.

The barstool scraped as it pushed back.

"Derek?" Stiles asked, his voice gentle as he came closer.

Somehow, Derek had backed up against the opposite counter, though he didn't remember moving. He lifted his gaze from the floor and met Stiles's concerned eyes.

"Me," he said, the word sounding distant and foreign to his ears.

Stiles stopped less than an arm's length away and frowned. "I don't understand."

Acid boiled in Derek's gut as he tried to form his thoughts into words. It was harder than it should have been.

"Us. Stiles, they're zbieracz."

Stiles mouthed the word uncomprehendingly, and his eyes crinkled with a frown.

"Collectors," Derek offered. "Some zbieracz collect magic or blood or souls." Derek curled his fingers around the edge of the counter behind him and squeezed. "But hekaloi collect _us_. Our . . . bodies."

"For what?" Stiles crossed his arms and hunched uncomfortably.

Derek averted his gaze and took a moment to form a reply. "You know Chinese Traditional Medicine?"

Stiles's heartbeat kicked up, and his expression flattened. "Yeah," he said warily.

Derek cut a glance at him. "And you know how some of their ingredients are . . . exotic—"

"Oh my God."

"Rhino horn—"

"Oh my _God_. Are you—?"

Derek fell quiet, sick emptiness yawning inside.

"Are you telling me," Stiles went on, "that these things wanna use you for . . . parts?" He sounded incredulous and horrified.

Derek nodded, watching him.

Stiles sucked his breath in and spun in place, combing his fingers through his hair in agitation. "Oh my God. We have to tell Scott."

He stopped all motion and stared at Derek for a second. Then he dug out his phone.

"Stiles, I'm not even sure if—" Derek started to protest, but Stiles gave him a sharp look.

"Were you followed?"

"Yes," without hesitation.

"Then _I'm_ sure." He set his phone on the bar top and hit call.

"Hey, Stiles!" Scott's voice came through the phone a second later.

"Hey, Scott. You're on speaker."

Stiles looked up expectantly at Derek as he came over to the bar.

"Hi, Scott," Derek supplied sheepishly, still not sure quite where they stood with one another.

The "Derek" he got in reply sounded friendly enough.

"Look, Scotty," Stiles said, "I think we got a problem."

Scott shushed someone in the background and tried to sound serious. "What kind of problem?"

Stiles and Derek exchanged a look.

"The werewolf kind? Someone followed Derek last night."

"And today," Derek added.

"Someone like who?" Scott asked.

Derek heaved a sigh, still not comfortable with the idea that his childhood boogeymen were actually real. "They're called hekaloi. And they're . . . bad, Scott. Worse than hunters."

They could practically hear Scott frowning into the phone. "Worse than hunters how? What do they want?"

"Body parts," Stiles replied.

"I'm sorry?"

"Bo-dy. Parts," Stiles said again, enunciating. "Like, eye of newt, liver of werewolf. Body parts. Yours, Derek's—" He cut himself off and looked sharply at Derek. "Lydia?" It came out as a squeak.

Derek just frowned, and it told Stiles everything he needed to know.

Stiles scowled. "Even Lydia. Apparently." His eyes met Derek's, and Derek leaned closer to the phone.

"Scott, you need to be careful. Look out for the scent of lavender or the sound of bells . . . like, like jingle bells. I didn't _see_ anyone. But remember what I told you about trusting your senses? I could feel them watching me. I could _feel_ them following."

"Okay," Scott said. "What else?"

Stiles frowned down at the phone. "What else? What do you mean what else? Crazy murderers are out to get you! What more do you _need_?"

Scott sighed, and they could hear Allison in the background asking him what was wrong. Scott's voice went muffled and then came back. "I mean, what do we do? How do we _stop_ them?"

Stiles looked at Derek for help, and Derek shrugged back at him defensively. "How should I know! Until yesterday, they weren't even _real_."

"What?" Scott's voice, but Stiles spoke over him. "Well, what about the nursery rhyme, does it say anything else useful?"

Derek thought, his eyes scanning the ceiling as he ran through a song he hadn't heard in nearly twenty years. He gave Stiles a pained look.

"What?"

Guilt swirled in his chest. "I think . . . they can look like anyone."

Stiles's eyes widened. "You mean, they might happen to look like anyone or you mean they can at any time look like anyone?"

Derek's expression soured as he rubbed a hand over his face. "I mean, they're glamored. So they can, whenever they want, at any time, look like anyone."

Stiles deflated. "Of course they can." And threw his hands up in exasperation.

Scott muttered something, but it was muffled and probably meant only for Allison. Then he said, "Okay, well, if they're hunting us, then we should stick together. Safety in numbers. No one goes anywhere by themselves."

"Wait, what?" Stiles cut in.

"I'll let everyone else know," Scott finished, like he hadn't heard.

The phone went dead, and Stiles looked at Derek slack-jawed for a second. Derek rolled his eyes and sighed at him.

"Well," Stiles said, straightening and grabbing his phone from the counter, "looks like you're coming over for dinner."

Derek gave him a questioning look as Stiles started for the door. Stiles glanced back when Derek didn't move.

"What?"

"I am?" Derek's eyebrows shot even further up.

Stiles wiggled his phone at him. "You heard Scott. I gotta get dinner for my dad, and I'm not leaving you here alone. So . . ."

Something warm tugged in Derek's chest. He plastered it over with an indignant scowl, then glanced around his empty apartment and back at Stiles. He frowned half-heartedly and grabbed his jacket. "I'm driving myself."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Whatever, dude."

 

 

They stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the elevator. "Where are we going?" Derek asked as they waited.

"Wendy's."

Derek glared. "I'm not eating that."

Stiles shot him a confused frown. "Okay? Burger 2?"

Gag. "No, Stiles." And Stiles had the nerve to look incensed.

"Well . . . then what do you want?"

"Food. Real food."

"Wendy's _is_ real food."

Derek's voice rose. "Fast food is _not_ real food. It's chemicals and additives, which is exactly what it tastes like."

"Wait." Stiles held up his hand, ignoring the elevator that slid open in front of them. "You're telling me you can _taste_ preservatives."

"Yes!" Because, obviously.

Stiles looked thunderstruck and stumbled over his words. "Well. But. Well then where do you want to go?"

Derek arched an eyebrow at him. "The grocery store?"

"Ha ha." Only he hadn't meant it as a joke, and Stiles quickly dropped his sarcastic look. "Oh, you—Okay, but my dad doesn't cook. And the only thing I know how to make is pancakes."

Derek turned his attention toward the elevator and stabbed the down arrow. He crossed his arms over his chest as they waited—again—and sighed. "I'll do it," he said quietly.

Stiles's face split into a gleeful grin. "You." And the elevator door dinged open.

"Yes, me." Derek shot him a withering look and then pointed. "Go."

Beside him, Stiles bounced on the balls of his feet. "I gotta see this."

"GO."

 

***

 

Scott hung up the phone and turned to Allison, looking grim.

“What is it?” she asked, ducking toward the cocoa she clutched in both hands. Her tone seemingly summoned Isaac from the depths of the baked goods stall, and he hovered at her side a second later holding a pumpkin. The glee in his eyes ebbed as he read Scott's expression.

“Stiles and Derek,” Scott replied. “They said Derek’s being followed.”

“By who?” The three of them drew closer together, moving to the side of a caramel apple cart—a staple of any fall festival worth attending. Allison hugged herself into her coat for protection from the October chill.

Scott waited as a group of people passed close by, lowering his voice to a whisper as they moved on. “I think it’s more ‘by what.’” This earned him a pair of questioning looks. “He called them hekaloi. Said they're worse than hunters.”

Isaac scowled and edged closer to Allison, as though he could apologize for Derek by proximity.

“He said,” Scott went on, “that they hunt down things like us for . . . parts.”

“Parts?” Allison's fine brows drew together. “Parts for what?”

Scott shrugged dramatically. “I don’t know. They didn't say. But, I kinda like my liver where it is.” He pressed a hand to his stomach.

“So . . . they’re a different kind of werewolf hunter?” Isaac asked. He hugged the pumpkin to his chest and stared at Scott.

“I don’t think it’s just werewolves. Stiles said—"

“Lydia,” Allison cut him off, her expression going tight.

Scott started flicking through the contacts on his phone, nodding. “I’m gonna call Aiden and Ethan. Until we know more, no one should be by themselves.” He glanced up at Isaac. “Derek said look out for the smell of lavender and the sound of jingle bells. That’s how we’ll recognize them.”

Between the two of them, Isaac was the stronger tracker. His sense of smell was even better than Derek’s. He might be useless in a fight, but he was the best bloodhound they had.

Isaac nodded but scratched at his temple, looking stressed. "Oh . . . yeah, okay."

Allison nudged him with her elbow and gave him a questioning look. He ducked his head sheepishly in reply, curls tumbling toward his eyes.

“I-I . . . don’t actually know what lavender smells like,” he muttered.

She laughed suddenly, but not cruelly, a fond smile turning up the corners of her eyes. “There’s a candle store in the mall,” she offered.

Scott and Isaac gasped simultaneously, and Scott's thumb hovered over his phone.

“Oh God, no,” from Isaac.

“Please . . .” Scott’s eyes went puppishly wide.

She stared at them both. “What—”

“We . . . maybe we could wait in the car?” Isaac offered, glancing at Scott for confirmation.

Allison looked at them both like they'd lost their minds, then sighed. “Fine. Stay in the car.” A whispered “Useless,” breathed into her hot chocolate as she sipped again.

Scott dialed Aiden, but it went to voicemail. That was odd. The twins might be alphas in their own right, but this was _his_ pack, and they’d so far seemed pretty willing to accept that. Promised to abide by his rules. And normally answered when called. Scott frowned down at his phone, a cold wariness creeping across his shoulders.

 

 

***

 

 

Sheriff Stilinski got up as the front door started to open. "About time. Where the hell have you—"

He stopped at the sight at Derek Hale coming into his house, arms laden with brown grocery bags. Stiles shuffled in after him and tossed his father a sheepish smile. "Hey, dad!"

"Stiles," John said in the bewildered but accepting tone he'd adopted over the years. He followed them into the kitchen and watched as they set everything down. He glanced at Derek from head to toe and then looked at Stiles. "Son, should I be concerned that Derek's in my kitchen?"

Stiles turned to him, appalled. "Dad, he's _right here_."

Derek's jaw muscle flexed, but he busied himself with unpacking a grocery bag.

"I can see that. But—no offense—good news doesn't really follow him around."

Stiles's jaw dropped, and for a second he just stared at his father, mortified. Derek froze, waiting.

"Yeah . . ." Stiles's expression closed like a prison door. "Well it doesn't follow me around, either." He picked a bag up off the floor and aggressively set onions on the counter.

John sighed and scratched at his hair. "I'm sorry, I—"

"We have to stay in pairs, okay?" Stiles said, tone flat.

The Sheriff leaned his hip against the counter and gave them both as assessing look. "So, this is a werewolf thing."

Stiles blew out an annoyed breath. "Yes, okay, it's a werewolf thing."

"Not every supernatural thing is a werewolf thing," Derek muttered.

Stiles shot him a glare. "Not helping!"

John visibly reined himself in, turning to look around at the collection of fresh food that had blossomed in his kitchen. "So . . . no burgers, then?"

The tension eased out of Stiles's stance and shoulders. "Sorry. Derek doesn't eat junk food, so . . ." He waved at the counters.

The sheriff nodded, as though that were reasonable enough. "I see. So . . . _you're_ going to cook?"

"What!" Stiles squawked and then started to laugh. "No. Nooooo. No. No. _He's_ going to cook." He hooked a thumb toward Derek, eyes alight with glee.

Derek offered them both a steady look and silence.

John's expression pinched. "Do I . . . need to help?"

"No," Derek and Stiles answered together, and the sheriff sighed in relief.

"Great. I'll just . . ." He pointed to the fridge and then the living room. Wordlessly, Derek opened the fridge, grabbed a beer bottle, and handed it over. The Sheriff took it and disappeared to watch TV.

After he was gone, Derek started arranging tools and ingredients. According to Stiles, they didn't have _anything_ , so they'd bought everything, right down to the flour and salt. He opened nearly every cabinet looking for pots and bowls and found the cutting boards under some long-disused muffin tins.

"Can I help?" Stiles asked somewhat hesitantly.

Derek glanced over his shoulder and tossed him an onion.

"Oh, seriously? I get all weepy."

Derek shrugged, an elaborate dance of muscles for so small a movement. "You asked."

Stiles sighed until his lungs were empty. "I hate you."

 

 

Stiles delivered three plates of what Derek deemed simply "pesto chicken" to the dining room table, followed by small bowls of braised kale. John looked genuinely impressed, saluting Derek with his empty beer bottle on his way toward the kitchen.

"Derek? Something to drink?"

Derek blinked at him a second. "Sure." A bottle appeared next to him a moment later.

Stiles frowned. "I thought you guys couldn't get drunk."

Derek arched an eyebrow as he popped the bottle cap off with an artful claw flick. "We can, it just takes a lot more."

"Then why bother? Beer is gross, dude."

Derek gazed at him and pointedly took a drink just to watch Stiles make a face.

When John sat down, a strange silence fell over the table. Derek glanced at the two of them as they studied their plates. Were they a family that said grace? Maybe he should—

Stiles grabbed his fork and dug in, cutting off a piece of chicken and piling on small pieces of artichoke and portobello, light green from the cream sauce. Derek found his eyes were glued to Stiles's mouth, the press of his lips, the bit of sauce that escaped. He waited, feeling a tight anxiety until at last Stiles let out a soft moan.

"Mmm." He chewed a little more. "Oh my God." Swallowed. "Dude, this is _amazing_. Who would've thought that _you_ —"

The warm bit of pride that had started to glow fizzled, and Derek scowled down at his plate.

His expression must have said it all, because Stiles cut himself off sharply and started again.

"Wait, no hey, totally a compliment. Like, this is me, blown away."

Derek glanced up at him cautiously. The Sheriff took his first bite then, and his eyes slowly widened. "Wow," he said, an awed sound, and Stiles pointed at him. "See?"

Derek's shoulders relaxed, and he allowed himself to smile a little. "Thanks."

"How'd you learn to cook like this?"

He lifted one shoulder. "Laura burned water, so I didn't have much choice." He picked up his beer bottle, gazing at the label, and then took a long drink, letting his eyes drift shut.

Stiles gave him a sad sort of smile, and for a few moments the only sounds were John’s small hums of pleasure and the scrape of silverware as Stiles settled back in to his food.

Derek set the bottle down and watched them for a bit, settling into the idea that they were, indeed, happy, before finally eating something himself. The next time he glanced at Stiles, there was a mischievous, knowing grin on his face. Derek quirked an eyebrow at him.

"This is your best dish, isn't it?"

His face felt suddenly hot, and he studied his plate.

"Oh my God, it totally is! You were trying to impress us!"

" _Stiles_ ," the Sheriff broke in. "Pretend like you have manners. Please. For me."

"But—" Stiles motioned toward Derek. "I—" Chastised, his voice dropped. "I thought it was sweet. I didn't—"

Derek glanced at him because his heart rate was steady when he said it.

John set his knife and fork on his empty plate with slow seriousness. "Best meal I've had since—" His voice faded, and Derek raised his eyes to look at him. "Since," he said with finality.

A feeling more precious than pride suffused Derek's body. "Thanks," he said softly.

"No, son, thank you," the Sheriff said as he got up. He touched Derek's shoulder as he passed. "Stiles, dishes."

Stiles burst suddenly into motion, clearing the table. John returned with two tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. He poured two doubles, slid Derek one of the glasses, and waited until Stiles reappeared.

"So . . . you boys want to tell me what you haven't been telling me?" He gave them both an arch look and took a sip of whiskey to give them a chance to answer.

Derek caught a sudden pang of fear from Stiles and couldn't help but give him a curious, worried look. They'd already said there was "werewolf business," so why the fear now?

"You mean the, uh . . . the pairs thing," Stiles said as he slid back into his seat.

The Sheriff's eyes narrowed. "Should I mean something else?" And it was a wonder Stiles ever got away with as many lies as he did, really.

"No! Nope. No . . . so . . ." Stiles looked at Derek expectantly, and Derek barely concealed his annoyance, instead taking a sip of whiskey and letting it slide down his throat before answering.

This time he told them everything. How it started in the grocery store, what he'd felt, what he’d thought. Running in the parking lot, no matter how embarrassing that was to admit.

Sheriff Stilinski took it all in without interrupting and nodded, looking skeptical, swirling the glass in his hand.

"So you think these things are real. These . . . hekaloi."

Derek shrugged. "I do now."

"And you have some sort of plan, I take it?"

"Not so much a plan," Stiles interjected, rolling his hands in the air, "as a plan to get a plan. But until then . . ." He gave Derek a look.

"Derek's staying over," John supplied.

"Seems that way," Derek muttered.

"On the _couch_." The Sheriff gave them both a pointed look, and Stiles's jaw dropped. Derek schooled his expression to cover his surprise and watched as Stiles's neck started to flush.

"Dad, oh my God, you are so embarrassing." Stiles got up, ignoring any further reactions from his father, and headed for the kitchen. "I'm making coffee. Derek, do you drink coffee?"

“Sure,” he replied, getting up to follow. "You can have coffee this late and still sleep?"

"I can! Bonus feature of ADHD, coffee helps me study."

Stiles flipped on an electric kettle, pulled a French press from the cabinet near the stove, a tablespoon measure from the drawer on the other side of the room, and the coffee grinds from a shelf of the pantry.

Derek just watched him, all long limbs and focused energy. Stiles caught him looking. "French press is faster," he narrated as he worked, measuring out 12 precise tablespoons of grinds. "And, just better, you know?" He pulled the lid off a jar on the counter and then turned around, shoving a handful of sugar packets in Derek's direction. Derek received them in cupped palms and then shuffled to rearrange everything when Stiles held a carton of light cream toward him. He hovered, waiting to see if there was anything else, until Stiles turned and gave him a pointed look. "You can go sit. This'll be done in like a second."

He wanted to snark back at him but couldn't think of anything to say and so ended up back at the dining room table, dumping a pile of sugar packets somewhere near the middle.

"Dad? You want some?" Stiles called.

Sheriff Stilinski huffed a laugh. "Oh, no. I want to sleep some time tonight, thank you."

Stiles reappeared with a mug in each hand and several packages of Twinkies dangling from his mouth. He set a mug down and tossed one of the packages to his father, offering another across the table. "Dessert?"

For a second, Derek considered a lecture on just how many ways Twinkies violated the "real food" rule, but he settled for making a face that had Stiles jerking his hand back and apologizing.

"So," John said, "what’s this you were saying about studying, earlier?"

Stiles dropped into his chair and set about making his coffee drinkable. "Yeah. Studying. That thing I do."

"That thing you are _supposed_ to do."

Stiles looked _profoundly_ , offended. "I get good grades. I get better grades than Scott!"

The Sheriff continued, unruffled. "Just tell me you're going to pass high school. I know it's been a rough year, but if you could at least promise me that?"

Stiles sagged and stared into his coffee. "Your confidence in me is astounding."

"I'm serious."

"Yes, Dad, okay. I will pass high school."

The Sheriff nodded, looking both relieved and resigned.

Stiles rolled his eyes, tested his coffee, took his mug in hand, and got up.

"I’ve got things to finish," he said to Derek, motioning toward his room. It seemed like an invitation, the way Stiles looked at him and waited for a reaction, so Derek picked up his coffee mug and followed. Halfway up the stairs, he heard the sheriff's voice, pitched low and quiet.

"Keep him safe."

Derek paused and looked back over his shoulder, though he couldn't see the table anymore. The words made his throat close, and his reply came out a whisper only he could hear.

“I’m trying.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles glanced back over his shoulder as Derek trailed him into his room, looking uncertain. “Um, I _do_ actually have studying to do. So…”

“So do it.”

“Right,” he responded, then nodded at himself. “Right.”

While Stiles opened his textbook and got settled in front of his computer, Derek scanned his bookshelf for something to read—something less academic than the last time. He slipped a novel called _Mélusine_ off the shelf. The title was scrawled in a flourishing, elegant script, and the name suggested something foreign, although it didn’t translate into any language he knew: an enigma. After only a moment’s deliberation, he opted for the uncomfortable chair instead of stretching out on the bed. A serendipitous choice, as the trail of open folders and notebooks quickly spilled over from Stiles’s desk to cover the bed.

He kept, Derek couldn’t help but notice, _moving_. The talkative hands and spastic energy certainly hadn’t escaped him before, but he’d never had the time or opportunity to just watch Stiles _existing_ without eminent danger or one of them nearly dead. He flipped through pages in a text, highlighting as he went, then stacked that book on another and spun away to type. As he was reading, he’d wheel back toward the bed to grab a folder, scrawling a note across it, then drop the whole thing and switch subjects, only to come back 10 minutes later.

And he always had something in his mouth—usually a pen, sometimes his nails—anything to keep his lips occupied. Derek felt a flutter in his chest, unbidden, and Stiles’s lips suddenly stopped their worrying. In a quick heat of panic, Derek flicked his gaze up, sure he’d been caught. But Stiles swiveled in his chair to type something, and Derek shifted his gaze away and tried to read.

At one point, Stiles looked up from the textbook in his lap and simply stared out the window perfectly still except for this blinking eyes. The utter lack of motion drew Derek’s attention from his book. Curious, Derek leaned forward to see if there was actually something out there to look at, but he couldn’t sense anything. He slowly eased back into the chair and absorbed the spectacle of Stiles being still.

He was still for a long time. Derek’s slight frown turned worried.

“Stiles?” he asked, his voice just a rumble.

Stiles flinched and turned toward him, tearing his eyes from the window. “Hm?”

Derek glanced him up and down, reading his heartbeat. “You okay?”

The question seemed to bring him into focus. “What? Yeah. Nothing.”

 _A lie_.

Derek lifted an eyebrow, but when Stiles turned away he decided not to press. They hadn’t talked much since he’d gotten back from Costa Rica. Derek had brought over the carved mask souvenir as he’d promised. He glanced over and saw it hanging on the wall near the head of the bed. They’d discussed the nightmares a little then, but if Stiles had had any new dreams, he hadn’t called or texted. The lie just now made him suspect that they hadn’t gone away. The Sheriff’s secret plea suddenly seemed less out of left field than it had earlier. He studied Stiles more closely for signs he might have missed and ran back through everything that’d happened since Stiles showed up at the apartment—his gestures, his sighs, the color of his skin.

Stiles spun around suddenly in his chair. “What?”

“What, what?”

He flung his arms out in exasperation. “Do you wanna kill me or kiss me?”

Did he _what_? Confused, Derek tried to form a reply, but Stiles kept right on talking. “Because you’re staring at me, and I can feel you staring at me, so either make up your mind or—Oh my God!”

All the color had drained out of Stiles’s face as he saw the book in Derek’s hand. Stiles dove out of his chair and snatched the book away, making Derek lose his place.

“Hey!” Derek growled at him, but Stiles had gotten over being affected by that months ago.

“You do not—No.” His face flushed, and he turned away to put the book back where it came from.

Derek crossed his arms and glared. “I can’t read your books?”

“Not _that_ book.”

“What’s wrong with that book?”

“I—” Stiles dropped himself back into his desk chair, and his face reddened further. “I don’t think you’d like it,” he finished quietly.

Since when did Stiles fancy himself an expert on _that_?

“ _And_ you didn’t answer my question.”

“Which was?” Derek asked.

“Why you keep staring at me.”

He averted his eyes. “I wasn’t.” Which made Stiles huff a laugh.

“Yeah, okay. And I’m _fine_ , by the way.” Then he picked up his Physics text and began pointedly highlighting.

“Would you tell me if you weren’t?”

Stiles aggressively flipped a page.

Annoyed, Derek got up and paced to the window, scanning the darkness. He took a long, slow breath, scenting the air, on edge for a hint of lavender. He found only Stiles, coffee, and inked paper.

Doubt gripped in his chest. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation for everything he'd sensed. Maybe his imagination was making wild leaps. Maybe he should put less trust in the rhymes sung to little children.

It was too late to take it all back. Scott would've called everyone by now, and if it turned out to be nothing, second-guessing at this stage would be just one more brand marking him a fool.

Stiles started tapping his pencil against his notebook, and Derek stretched his senses outward to keep from focusing too much on the _tap tap tap_. He mapped the sounds of the house, Stiles's father downstairs, the episode of NCIS he was watching, the creaking of the pipes. Stretching further, he listened to the cars passing by outside, and the sound of the neighbors talking on the phone. Wind rustled the crisp, dying leaves.

No bells.

That just made his gut twist more. Without a direction to face, everything felt exposed. Derek crossed his arms over his chest, an unconscious gesture to ward off vulnerability, meager shelter from the fear and helplessness. Behind it all, he felt the all too familiar sense that had he been better, he could have been spared.

The tapping stopped.

"Derek?" Stiles sounded cautious, and it made Derek open his eyes and seek out the younger man's reflection in the window pane. Stiles started to get up. "What's wrong, are they here?"

Derek shook his head. "No."

Stiles came to stand beside him anyway. "Would you know if they were?"

Derek sighed and looked at him. "I'm not even sure ifthey _are_."

"Yes you are." No hesitation.

Yes, he was. He tore his gaze away from the reflection and went back to looking out at the street.

"So?" Stiles asked.

"So what?"

"Would you know?"

Derek shrugged.

"Maybe. I hope so."

 

**

 

Benoit’s only took reservations, and they only took cash. Not, in point of fact, because they were trying to dodge credit card fees, but because it kept demand down and the riff-raff out. Benoit’s had a dress code, a sommelier, and a strict cell phone policy. Lydia had given Aiden ample warning that this was where he was taking her for their 3 month anniversary, even though she _wasn’t_ keeping track. She had already tried defining herself by the man she clung to and found it wanting. He could define himself by _her_ , if he wanted. But she was not going to count the days and divide her life into passages of a man’s time.

She was, however, going to get taken to the most exclusive restaurant in town.

She was going to wear her hair up. And she was _not_ going to care if anyone saw purple stains on pale skin. If Aiden got a few nasty looks? Well, he could be extra gentlemanly and extra kind, and it probably wouldn’t kill him.

“Mademoiselle,” the waiter inclined his head slightly toward Lydia.

She smiled up at him. “Monsieur.”

It made him dip his head approvingly. “Voulez-vous entendre les promos ?”

He made no attempt to speak slowly for her benefit, and Lydia gazed at him with interest, interlacing her slender fingers. “Oui,” she said like a kiss.

The waiter glanced at Aiden, whose face betrayed nothing. “Bonne.”

He described a set menu that included scallops with lemon caviar, lobster with white beans, porcini and honey, macaroni with black truffles and foie gras, chicken with autumn mushrooms, a cheese plate, and caramelized pear on a bed of meringue with chestnut cream.

Lydia ordered for them both and allowed the waiter to swap out the wine for sparkling water.

“Enjoying yourself?” Aiden asked, after the waiter had gone. He tried to hide a smile.

She leaned closer and parted her very red lips, pausing to make sure he glanced at them at least once. “Very much,” she said, and smiled in a way that promised that if _he_ wasn’t, he soon would be.

 

 

 

Partway through the first course, Aiden shifted in his seat and ever so briefly looked down at his pocket. His phone, most likely. Lydia waited to see what he would do and smiled one of her actual smiles when he didn’t so much as reach for it. Wild things _could_ be taught.

Two minutes later, it must have vibrated again. She could tell by the scowl that crossed his face. On the fourth attempt, Lydia set her glass down more forcefully than she intended.

“Just answer it,” she hissed, aware of the looks turning in their direction.

Aiden pulled his phone from his pocket and put it to his ear. At the scathing glare from their waiter, he slipped out of his chair and made his way to the front door.

“This had better be good,” he said as he passed into the cool night air, not even checking who the call was from.

“Aiden! Thank God,” Scott replied, his voice bursting with relief.

“What—”

“Look, are you with Lydia? Because you need to stay with Lydia tonight.”

He craned to look back through the windows at her. “I was planning on it, if I live through this call.”

“Okay, listen. We think there’s something new in town, and they kill things like us.”

“Things like us.”

“And things like her,” Scott added. “So if you smell lavender or—”

A spike of cold shot down Aiden’s spine, and he turned away from Lydia. “Hekaloi?” The word slipped from him like a curse.

“I—you’ve heard of them.”

“Everyone’s—” He cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose, because no, everyone hadn’t—hadn’t hidden in the boiler room, pressing Ethan’s tears into their thin shoulder; Hadn’t run as far and fast through Nevada scrub as their small feet would carry them and begged their way into the bottom rung of the only wolf pack who’d have them.

“They’re here? You’re sure?” He could feel his pulse rising, heart thumping heavily in his chest.

“Positive? No. But I believe Derek, and I don’t think we should take any risks we don’t have to.”

Aiden glanced sideways at Lydia, who arched an eyebrow as she watched him. “No . . .” he said lowly. “Scott, they kill whole _packs_.”

“Well, not this one. Just . . . keep an eye on her. Don’t get killed.”

Aiden scowled and hung up. He tapped his phone against his hand in agitation and glanced up and down the street. Sweat started to form at the small of his back, and he took a breath to calm himself and steady his pounding heart before he went back inside. He mouthed apologies to the people sitting nearby and scooted his chair in closer to the table.

“So . . .was it worth interrupting an exquisite meal?” Lydia asked, her tone frosty.

Aiden sighed and looked her in the eye. “Actually, yes.”

His honesty seemed to catch her off guard, and the glass mask she’d been wearing since they’d arrived fell away. Her fingers reached unconsciously for her throat until she noticed the gesture and curled them away.

“What is it?” she asked. A bit of the fear she was trying not to show surfaced in her eyes. “Tell me.”

Aiden offered his hand, and she slid her palm onto his.

“Hekaloi,” he whispered, casting a glance over one shoulder as though the word alone could summon them. “They . . . collect ‘valuable’ things. Like us.”

“Collect. Like a zoo?”

He closed his eyes.

“Like . . . an apothecary.”

When he opened them again, Lydia’s own had grown wide. She sucked in a breath through parted lips and pulled away from him, stumbling to form a reply. A knot formed in Aiden’s stomach.

“Lydia. . .”

“The nemeton brought them,” she concluded, searching his face for confirmation.

“Probably.”

“ _We_ brought them.”

He sighed. “Probably.”

She snapped her jaw shut and stared down at the chicken and black truffle macaroni on her plate. Aiden couldn’t decipher her silence—not quite angry, not as fearful it should have been. In the dim light, her eyes were like obsidian. She took a deep breath and then picked up her fork.

Aiden’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Lydia?”

She paused and regarded him from behind that cool, poised mask. “We’re paying for this meal either way.”

They finished the course in silence.

 

 

 

As the waiter came to remove their plates, Aiden let his senses unwind. The restaurant, hushed to human ears, bubbled into a kind of avant-garde symphony. He could hear the clink of silverware on plates, the wet sound of people chewing and swallowing, the clamor of pots in the kitchen. Hearts beat out a tribal dance. He took a moment to let his attention roam freely between each new addition. All at once it would have driven anyone mad, but they’d all learned how to shift their focus, singling out elements from the cacophony.

Smells, on the other hand, were much harder to ignore. Humans layered themselves in scents: shampoos, soaps, perfumes, all masking their own personal chemistry. Each one of those scents were themselves a blend of other scents—and so it spiraled. Opening that sense could be like walking into hurricane, allowing the world to make a physical assault. Aiden let it in, a headache instantly building behind his temples. One by one, he identified each of the other diners and staff around them and filtered out their scent, examining it, then forcing it into the background as his attention went elsewhere. If Lydia noticed him massaging his temples, she said nothing.

It was only when the waiter came to whisk away another set of empty plates that he smelled it: lavender and animal fat, and sickness and something that reminded of a morgue.

Aiden jolted upright. "Lydia, we have to go."

Her perfect eyebrows came together slightly and her lips parted to reply, then stopped, mouth hanging open. Her dark eyes focused on something just over Aiden's shoulder. He turned and found himself staring up at Peter Hale.

"Lydia," Peter said in that smooth, calm way of his. "You need to leave." A suggestion that was not a suggestion.

She snapped her jaw shut and lifted her chin. "I haven't had my dessert," she replied, each word crisp and hard.

Peter stepped closer, silencing some of the more snide diners with a look before softening his gaze toward Lydia. "I'm trying to help."

Aiden let a growl rumble in his throat, too low for humans to hear.

Lydia arched an eyebrow. "I don't believe you."

Peter's kind expression vanished. "Fine. You're valuable. You think he's worth something?" He gestured in Aiden's direction. "Alphas in this town are a dime a dozen. But you . . . you're one of a kind."

It almost sounded like a compliment.

"How did you—" Lydia started to ask, but both werewolves tensed and whipped their heads around at once.

 _Bells_.

Aiden hopped to his feet. "Lydia, get up." His tone barreled past her misgivings, and when he offered her his hand, she took it. They snatched up their things and hurried for the door. The waiter appeared in their way. "Monsieur. You have not paid the—"

Peter shoved a wad of money at him as he ushered the others out.

"Who is it? Can you see?" Lydia asked, her breath frosting in the cool air.

Aiden's head twitched a quick negative.

The bells were getting closer, the _shrung shrung_ jangle faster, like running steps. "C'mon," Aiden tugged at her wrist. "Come _on_!"

They hurried down the block.

"I don't see anyone!"

Peter, close behind them, called, "You don't have to _see_ —"

His voice cut off with a grunt, and Lydia spun to see him slam up against a brick building with the forearm of a woman in a yoga outfit jammed against his throat. His eyes flashed blue in the low light and he clawed at his attacker, but the gashes on her face healed almost as soon as they’d opened, leaving only a trace of dark liquid.

Lydia stared. "Oh my G—"

"Run!" Aiden growled and pulled her along toward the car.

"I'm. In. Heels!" She shouted back at him, running as quickly as she could.

Behind them, someone roared—Peter—and thudded against a solid object.

The woman seemed to flash into existence between Lydia and Aiden, grabbing Lydia by the throat—the sudden stop tearing their linked hands from one another.

“Banshee,” she smiled.

Aiden turned and drove his fist at the hekalus’s side. She jerked with the impact and looked at him as though he’d only just entered her awareness.

Despite the pressure on her throat, Lydia could feel the scream building. She fought to hold it back. Heat and power concentrated in her chest, seeking freedom.

Aiden brought both sets of claws down on the hekalus’s outstretched arm, slicing to the bone. Thick black blood dripped from the wounds, and the severed muscles released the grip on Lydia’s throat. Lydia stumbled back, then started to run. Aiden shoved the hekalus hard, hoping to knock it back and buy them time.

“Hey!” Peter shouted from down the sidewalk, a gun in his hand. The hekalus turned as it stumbled, and Peter fired.

The woman jerked from the impact and stared down at the hole in her chest. A second gunshot rang out and she jerked again, black blood blossoming across her stomach. Her expression twisted, and she started after Peter with renewed fury.

Aiden grabbed Lydia’s hand, jerked on her arm to bring her in close, and then swept her up into his arms and started to run. They'd parked a few blocks away. "Get your keys!" he said, fear keeping his fangs exposed even as he spoke.

Lydia stared back down the street in time to see Peter thrown onto a car, setting off the alarm—surely summoning any police the gunshots already hadn’t. He was sliding toward the ground when Aiden rounded the corner of the block, cutting off her view.

"But what about—"

"Lydia. Keys!"

She struggled to dig them from her purse while being carried, but eventually gripped them hard, holding them up where Aiden could see. He set her down at the passenger side door.

"It’s _my_ car!" she said, incredulous.

"And my reflexes are faster. _Please._ " He held out his hand for the keys and checked down the street, shifting anxiously with the desire to flee.

Shaking, she tossed them over, and they both quickly got into their seats. Lydia was still buckling her seatbelt when Aiden tore away from the curb.

Lydia turned to look out the rear windshield, panting. "So the woman in the—"

"Hekaloi."

"Did she kill him?"

"Probably." Aiden swung the car out into traffic despite a red light.

Lydia sank into her seat, gasping for air. An odd expression crossed her face. Not sadness, but not the triumph she’d have expected either. She pressed a trembling hand over her mouth and fought to keep everything in.

"We need to go somewhere safe," Aiden said, weaving effortlessly between vehicles.

Lydia looked over and blinked at him, letting her hand fall from her face, then pulled out her phone.

 

**

Isaac sneezed for the umpteenth time and rolled his head in agony. “Promise me you’ll never buy one of those again,” he said, moaning.

Allison pouted, waiting for the stoplight to turn green. “You didn’t have to throw it out.”

“He so very much did,” Scott said from the backseat. “You have no idea.”

She glared at him in the rearview mirror. “Those votives are ten dollars.”

Scott fished for his wallet and waved a ten up toward the front seat. Allison rolled her eyes but snatched it anyway. The light changed, and she pulled out onto South Main.

There was a second of silence before Isaac’s whole body tensed for another sneeze. He huffed, trying to hold it back but failing spectacularly. The spasm left him doubled over, head pressed against the dash. Allison, looking guilty, touched his hair.

“At least you know what it smells like now?” she offered.

Isaac lifted his head and stared at her.

“Right?”

Isaac looked back at Scott, who shrugged apologetically then flopped back in his seat.

“Right . . .” he said eventually.

The longer he looked miserable, the more subdued Allison’s humor became. All in all, they hadn’t, been taking this new threat very seriously. One report from one person about being followed didn’t sound like all-out war, not compared to the last few months they’d had, but Deaton had been clear that in addition to their own personal scars, Beacon Hills had been changed for the worse.

The atmosphere in the car grew heavy with contemplation. Allison peered at Isaac and then back at Scott and cleared her throat.

“I think we should talk to my father.”

“About the hekaloi,” Scott said.

She nodded. “If they hunt, then maybe my family’s crossed their path before.”

Scott frowned as he thought about that. “Do you—do you think they’d work together?” He could still picture the barrel of Kate’s gun aiming down at him and had no doubt that she’d just as soon have taken money for what she’d wanted to do for free.

Allison’s shoulders lifted in a tight shrug. “I don’t know. But I think we should ask.”

 

**

 

Isaac got out first, testing the air around the apartment building before he waved to Allison and Scott to follow. Scott tossed him the pumpkin they’d acquired from the harvest festival, trying to lighten the mood, but Isaac just hugged it close to his chest and hurried toward the entryway.

“Dad?” Allison called from the front hall. She let Isaac close and lock the door as she tossed her jacket onto a hook.

“In here!” he called back from the kitchen. He met them in the living room, wiping his hands with a dishtowel.

“Mr. Argent,” Scott said.

“Scott, Isaac,” Chris nodded at them in turn and then looked at Allison. “How was the festival?”

“Fine,” Allison replied. “It was fine. Got a pumpkin!” Isaac held it up and forced a grin before setting it on the table.

Allison pulled off her hat and tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear. “Dad, we have to ask you something.”

He gave her an evaluating look and sat down on the closest armchair. Allison, Scott, and Isaac took seats in a semi-circle around him, exchanging unsure looks.

Allison nodded at Scott, and he sucked a breath. “Have you ever heard of something called a hekaloi?”

Chris’s eyes flashed, and his expression hardened. On instinct he sat up straighter. “Where’d you hear that name?”

“So you have.”

“Yes, but where did _you_ hear it?”

Scott glanced at his friends. “Derek. He said he was being followed, and he thinks that’s who’s doing it.”

Chris sat back and wiped a hand over his face. A second ago he’d looked dangerous, deadly. Now he looked like someone cornered.

“Dad, you have to tell us,” Allison leaned forward, insistent.

Chris looked at her skeptically for a moment. His shoulders sank when he decided that he did, in fact, have to tell them.

“What do you already know?”

Scott made a small, humorless laughing sound. “Nothing. Lavender, bells, and . . . body parts. That’s it.”

Chris nodded to himself and drew a deep breath. He let the motion carry him to his feet and paced around to the back of the chair to give himself something to brace against. “Hekaloi are a kind of zbieracz. It means . . . collector. _Harvester._ Some zbieracz collect blood . . .”

“Vampires?” Scott cut in, sounding surprised.

“Like vampires, yes.” Chris nodded. “Some others collect magical power or souls. Hekaloi . . . hekaloi collect flesh. From things with power.”

“Why?” Isaac asked. He unwound his scarf and shoved it in his pocket.

Chris shifted his weight uneasily, his gaze settling on the coffee table. “Two reasons, mainly. One, they graft what they steal onto themselves, making themselves strong. And two . . .” Something like regret flashed across his face. “Two, they sell . . . products . . . made from what they take.”

“Products,” Scott repeated.

Chris met his questioning gaze. “Potions. Pills. Magic cures. Whatever a customer wants. Needs.”

Allison looked over at Scott, her eyes wide with horror. “They—” She turned back to her father. “They make them out of _people_?”

Chris nodded at her and looked away, something heavy and guilty in his silence. Allison checked with Scott again, and he was giving Chris an intense, thoughtful look . . . the same look she felt forming on her face.

“So if you wanted one of these potions, how would you get it?” Allison asked slowly, watching her father’s expression.

“Dad. Where would you get it?” At his silence, something stirred in her blood.

“The agora skotadi.” It sounded like a confession.

“You’ve been there,” Allison gasped, cold anger crystallizing in her chest.

“Once.” Chris looked up at her. His voice softened. “I was there once. A long time ago.”

“Why?”

“Because they know things, Allison. Things no one else knows.”

Scott broke in. “Where is it? Is it far?”

“It’s not permanent. The agora follows the hekaloi. It manifests at junctions of power and disappears when they leave.” He glanced at Allison. “Your grandfather spent the last couple of years trying to find one again. Travelled everywhere, sent out recon parties to track the supernatural and listen for mass disappearances.” Chris shook his head and looked away. “I didn’t know why until that night.”

“He wanted them to heal him,” she said, and her father only nodded. The cold fire blazed in Allison’s chest, forcing her to her feet. “Did you help him?”

Chris’s eyes flicked to hers, and then away.

She stamped her foot. “They profit from murder!”

“It’s not that simple! It’s the murder of murderers!”

They glared at one another. He broke first and took a step away. “Not every werewolf is like your friends. Most creatures . . . they just kill.”

“Scott doesn’t kill,” Allison countered. “Isaac doesn't. And Lydia. Dad, she’s a _banshee_. I mean, I don’t even know what that means, but apparently it makes her a target too!”

Chris reached out, holding onto Allison’s upper arms. “Honey, I understand—”

“Do you? Because what if everyone they’ve ever killed was just like them–like Lydia? Dad, she's never hurt _anyone_.”

She tore out of his grasp and turned away. No matter how much she thought she knew, it would always come back to this—always another surprise, another disappointment.

Chris looked at her shaking back helplessly, then glanced at Scott. "I never bought anything."

"It doesn't matter."

"Scott—"

"No, I mean it doesn't matter _what_ you did or didn't do. They're here, and we have to make them stop. I know you want to be retired, but—"

Chris waved the rest of whatever Scott was going to say away. "We protect those who can't protect themselves," he said instead, eyeing Allison with regret.

Allison's phone started playing Lydia's ringtone, and she dug it out of her pocket, turning to face the others. "Lydia?" she said. At Lydia's reply, Allison felt her stomach drop. Isaac and Scott both stood and moved closer, drawn in by her shock and fear. "They found you." Allison's voice came out small. She nodded into the phone and then hung up.

"Aiden and Lydia are coming over."

"What happened? Are they okay?" Scott tried to keep his distance but ended up touching Allison's elbow anyway, as though his hands couldn't find another place to be.

Allison chewed on her lower lip and shrugged. "I guess? I think so. She didn't really say. She just . . . said they were coming here. Scott—"

"We need a plan. But we need to know what they know, first."

They all looked at one another, grim, and found a place in the living room to wait.

 

**

 

They didn't have to wait especially long. After a round of hugs and once-overs for wounds, everyone arranged themselves in a circle sitting and standing around the Argents’ living room. Allison sat as far from her father as she could, pressing into Isaac’s side. Aiden hovered closest to the door.

“So you actually saw one?” Scott asked.

Lydia nodded and swallowed. Her fingers brushed lightly at her collarbone.

“Well, what’d it look like?”

She lifted one shoulder, fighting back the fear that was finally settling in. “Like . . . a person. A yoga instructor.” A slightly hysterical laugh burst forth and she paused to bite it down.

Isaac narrowed his eyes at Aiden. “How did you get away?”

“Peter came to warn us. To warn her,” Aiden said, nodding in Lydia’s direction. “When we ran, it attacked him first.”

“She threw him into a building and then into a car,” Lydia added. “ _After_ he shot her.”

“Is he dead?” Scott couldn’t be sure what answer he was hoping for, but all he got was a shrug. A moment of silence followed, and Scott took out his phone to call Stiles.

“Hey, Scott,” Stiles’s voice rang crisp through the phone, and Scott placed it on the coffee table.

“Is Derek there?”

“I’m here.”

“Good. Okay. So, the quick update is that a hekaloi—”

“Hekalus,” Lydia said absently.

They all turned to stare.

“What? Loi is plural, lus is singular.” She waved a dismissive hand at Scott. “Continue.”

He scoweld. “A heka _lus_ found Lydia and Aiden. Peter, apparently, distracted it enough that they got away. And now everyone but you guys and Ethan are here.”

“Oh God, Lydia?” Stiles called, worry in his voice.

She smiled a small, tender smile down at the phone and only lied a little. “I’m fine.”

 

**

 

Stiles stared at the phone like the screen could give him answers. He’d heard the words, but she didn’t sound fine. She sounded wounded. He gazed over at Derek sitting next to him on the bed instead.

“So I guess we know they’re real.” Derek’s mouth twitched in response.

“Oh, they’re real.” Chris Argent’s voice. “And strong. Incredibly fast.”

“She appeared out of nowhere,” Lydia said. “And I mean, nowhere. The sidewalk was empty. I blinked, and she was slamming Peter against the wall. We ran, and the next thing I knew she was grabbing my throat. She was just . . . _there_!”

Scott sighed. “Is there a way we can talk with them?”

A jumble of voices crowded the phone: Allison declaring Scott crazy. Chris telling him that they’d never get close enough. Isaac pointing out that Scott’s weird methods had always worked in the past.

“Hey, guys?” Stiles said, picking up the phone and holding it closer to his mouth. “Guys?” Still ignored. “GUYS!”

The cacophony on the other end stopped.

“Maybe before we go hurling ourselves at these things we should find out more about them?” Stiles held his hands open in question, even though Derek was the only one who could see him. And Derek didn’t look impressed.

“We know enough,” Allison replied. Something cold and final weighed in her tone, and it made Stiles sit back a little.

Derek shook his head. “They came after us. We have to defend ourselves.” His voice carried a deep rumble.

“Then Stiles is right. If we’re going to fight them, we _need_ to know more,” Scott said.

“No, Stiles isn’t right.” Aiden this time.

He hadn’t spoken yet. At the sound of his voice, Derek’s whole aura shifted. He brushed his fingers over one wrist absently as he crossed his arms. Stiles realized that Derek was hugging himself, holding himself in, keeping himself together. He edged away slightly from the phone, and his expression slack, eyes distant and shuttered.

“. . . and we can’t face them. We need to run,” Aiden was saying. “All of us.”

Derek folded in on himself. And Stiles just _knew_ —could see the buried hurt, the sublimated guilt and anger. No month in any paradise could stitch a wound like that closed. No one, himself included, had even _asked_.

He burst into an anger like a ringing blade. “Really, Traitor Twin? Is that what we need to do? Because I don’t recall anyone asking you,” he spat.

_“Traitor twin?”_

“Did I stutter?”

Something slammed near the phone on the other end. “You don’t know anything about me!”

He was on his feet suddenly, spinning, nearly crushing the phone in his hand. “I know everything I need to!”

“Stiles!” Scott roared, his voice thrumming with power. “We'll do this _later_.”

“We’ll do this now!”

“We’ll _do_ this. Later.” Scott couldn’t alpha him, but he didn’t have to.

Stiles’s anger could have cut stone. "You're damn right we will."

He fought against the urge to pitch his phone at the wall and settled for hurling it at the bed instead. He huffed a breath through flaring nostrils and avoided Derek’s eyes. The anger still coursed through his limbs, so he flailed and kicked at the air to burn it off, leaving himself panting and drained. As his anger receded, he looked over to see Derek staring, a raw and awed expression on his face. That was an improvement, at least. It lasted only a moment before Derek seemed to catch that’d he’d put too much out into the world and drew back behind a mask.

Stiles dropped onto the bed and picked up his phone again, which had been suspiciously silent.

“I’m not leaving my dad, Scott,” Stiles said eventually.

"No one's asking you to."

“Are you kidding me? Buddy, you wouldn’t last a day without me.”

“Hey!”

“Guys!” Allison cut off their banter. “Run, or fight?” After a second she added, her tone tight, “Dad?”

Chris sighed. “Honestly? I don’t know if you _can_ fight. I know how to kill werewolves, but hekaloi? I’ve never tried to kill one before. Never known anyone who did. I’m not even sure you _can_ , much less how.”

“Then we’re going to need to find out,” Allison said. “We need to go to the agora.”

“I’ll go,” Scott said immediately, and Stiles flailed wordlessly in protest.

Chris replied first. “No, Scott. If a werewolf gets anywhere near it, they’ll be slaughtered. Allison and I will have to go.” He paused, and his voice grew quieter. “And if we’re going to do that, we’re going to need innocent blood.”

 

**

 

Somehow, Allison’s father saying ‘innocent blood’ didn’t leave her feeling like she’d been slapped. It didn't feel like compromised morals or the earth shifting center. It felt like the final tumbler of a lock slipping into awful place. The darkness inside patted the seat next to it and welcomed a new friend. This is who they were, who they had always been.

Isaac raised his hand tentatively. "What, exactly, are we suggesting here? I mean, I'm not really friends with the guy, but . . . we're not _actually_ discussing murder, right?" The worried look on his face made Allison want to kiss him. Instead, she turned on her heel and looked at her father.

"No. The entry fee is innocent blood. Nothing says we have to kill to get it."

"How innocent?" Allison asked, ignoring the sorrow in her father's eyes.

" _Innocent_ , Allison. Untouched by darkness.” More gently. “Never killed anyone." Her father glanced around the room, and their collection of impossible friends. "And it has to be human."

She sorted through them in her head. She and Stiles were human, but touched by darkness. Scott, Isaac, Aiden, Ethan, Derek, and Lydia weren't human at all. And her father . . . he'd killed before, lots of times. Her brows knit into a frown. "But . . . who does that leave?"

Scott made a small, discomfited sound, and Allison gave him a look that urged him to talk.

"Danny," he said quietly.

Stiles’s groan was audible even over the phone. "Oh my God, we are the worst friends ever."

Aiden spoke up. "My brother, did you talk to him?"

Scott nodded, looking miserable. "After I called you. He and Danny were at the library. I told him to stay there. Figured it was better than him leaving on his own. He said he hadn't sensed anything."

"So, what, we're gonna strap Danny down and shove a needle is his arm?" Stiles asked, his voice echoing. "Can we have _one_ friend that we don't assault? Please?"

Scott looked skeptical. "We could ask him?"

Allison's eyes widened with a flash of inspiration. "We can't, but Ethan could."

"How? What's he going to say?"

Lydia cleared her throat, drawing everyone's attention. "It's how they screen for STDs."

Allison felt her cheeks color, and Scott tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Oh my God, I'm going to hell."

"But haven't they already . . ." Isaac shied away from Chris Argent's mortified stare.

Lydia leaned toward Isaac and whispered loudly, "There are reasons one could need another test."

Isaac looked like he was going to question it further, but Allison hurried to fill the void before he could. "Scott, if he can convince Danny to go see your mom?"

Scott nodded miserably. "She can give us some. But she'll have to keep some to actually run the test. Danny will know something's wrong if no one calls him with results." He looked at his phone on the table. "Stiles, I gotta go. We have calls to make."

Allison’s dad uncrossed his arms and stepped forward. "I think," he checked himself, like he wasn't quite sure he wanted to say this. "I think you should all skip school tomorrow."

"Hey, that is a plan I am all for," Stiles sang happily.

"Stiles, you guys lay low and call me in the morning, okay?" Scott asked.

“Yeah. Stay safe.”

Scott then picked up his phone and ended the call. He scrolled for Ethan's number and looked up when Lydia appeared over him.

"Tell you what. You call and tell him he has to listen to me. I'll tell him what he should say."

"But—"

Lydia arched an eyebrow, and Allison couldn't help but smirk at the way Scott, the “True Alpha,” surrendered.

 

 

**

 

They sat in silence.

This was stupid. _He_ was stupid. A voice wasn't even a thing, not a _dangerous_ thing. It was just air. And it shouldn't have affected him anyway—shouldn't have shot down his spine, frozen his stomach. He was stronger than that. He’d always tried so hard to be stronger than that.

"You didn't have to do that," Derek said eventually, needing to fill the quiet.

Stiles snorted softly. "Yeah, actually, I kinda did. It's not okay."

Derek turned his head to look at Stiles, unsure what to say.

"I shouldn’t have let it get to me."

He still felt guilty that Stiles had flown off the handle because of him, picked a fight with Scott on his behalf for something so trivial as a bad feeling.

And yet he still felt sick to his stomach, felt like he was as stranger in his own skin—unfit, unworthy.

Stiles shifted beside him and drew closer, moving his leg until their thighs met. The sudden touch made Derek's heart clench as if teetering on some sort of event horizon. He could feel himself on the edge of his control shattering apart, and then he would _be_ grief. Falling, falling.

He shot up from the bed, away from the heat and connection. Stiles was making an offer, but it was a request, too. _Trust me. Break open_. "I can't," he said roughly.

Stiles swore at himself under his breath. "Wait, Derek, wait."

Halfway out the door, Derek stopped, waited without looking back. Cowards run.

"I'm sorry."

Derek felt the simple truth of it, and it kept him there, in place. "I know. I just—" How could a body feel so _hollow_.

"When you're ready." Stiles let out an unsteady breath. "I just wanted you to know I think about it. How they're dead. Really dead."

Derek had too many _they_ s, and all of them fit.

"So I don't think it's okay that Boyd's dead and the twins are screwing my friends."

Derek turned without speaking—just enough to look at Stiles over his shoulder.

"I think they hurt you, too. And you don't have to be okay with that."

 _Stop talking_. _Please, stop_.

"I'm not." Control crumbled in his fingers, slipped away like sand. In the smallest voice he had, he said, "I can't do this, Stiles, please." Every muscle hurt, like he'd been beaten from the inside, and the sobs he struggled to choke down might rise up en masse.

Anger and sorrow rolled off Stiles, saying everything that his, "Okay," didn't cover.

A little bit of the terror receded as Derek backed away from the cliff. "Try to get some sleep," he offered, and shut the door behind him.

 

**

 

Stiles stared at the ceiling of his room. His eyes stung from exhaustion, but sleep felt impossibly far away.

Derek had gone down downstairs over an hour ago, so it was just him, in the darkness, concentrating on the sensation of weight on his chest, squeezing out all the air. No matter which way he turned, the pressure remained.

He'd misstepped, earlier. Not with Aiden, or with Scott. Aiden was an asshole, and Scott was being blind. Even over the phone, Scott should have been able to read the change in Derek’s silence, should have understood. But he hadn’t. They were all too focused on what lay ahead, as if nothing else mattered—like the past couldn't touch them.

It did. Always. The pressure that stole his breath in the middle of the night, that felt like sinking and suffocating, waking up in a cold sweat and having to wash his hands because they still looked like blood; that was the past. That was the weight of the things they had done.

“Derek, are you awake?” Stiles asked the still air. Moonlight shone in through the window, casting his room into something alien—familiar objects obscured by new shadows.

Thirty seconds later, the cell phone on his night stand buzzed.

_Yes._

"I'm sorry about before. For pushing."

_Don't be._

_Are you okay?_

“You mean aside from being hunted by the boogeyman?” he spoke at the screen.

_They aren’t hunting you._

Stiles snorted. “Oh, yeah, well that makes it okay then.”

_Go to sleep._

He scowled at the screen flipped himself onto his side. “Would if I could.”

_What’s wrong?_

Stiles rubbed the spot on his breastbone that ached from the phantom pressure. “Nothing.”

_Lie._

“Can you not do that, please? Have I told you how creepy that is?”

_:)_

“That is seriously the most sarcastic smiley face I have ever seen.”

He waited, staring at the tiny screen, wondering if he’d somehow miraculously prompted Derek into a conversation of entire sentences. Then,

_Bite me._

It surprised Stiles into a laugh that became a giggle. And somehow the giggle just . . . multiplied. He turned his face into his pillow to muffle the sound and convulsed with the laughter of a mad man. Something about it eased the pressure, allowing him to fill his lungs at least a little again. Eventually, the giggle fit subsided and he let out a deep sigh.

“Thanks, man.”

And then he slept.


	3. October 11

Derek's eyes popped open the moment Stiles's father opened his door and started sneaking down the stairs. The guy was trying, really, shuffling his feet on the carpet before letting his full weight onto the stair and taking ten times longer to come down a single flight than if he'd just walked. He was trying, Derek knew, to let him sleep, to be a good host. But heightened senses and a constant state of alert didn’t care much for honest effort. He heard John step closer and dropped his eyes shut. The Sheriff smelled mostly of aftershave and gun oil.

"Sleep all right?" John asked after a second.

Derek froze in surprise, then slowly opened his eyes and frowned a little in confusion.

The Sheriff smirked and shook his head. "Have you met my son?" was all he said before he turned away.

It made Derek grin a little despite himself, and he sat up. "Fine," he replied. If fine meant staring at the ceiling, burning with embarrassment at having run away, too much a coward to let someone see the fissures. Or reaching for his phone only to delete the message unsent. If it meant being too brittle to speak, and meant hoping to disappear into the cushion until exhaustion hauled him under.

"Well," John shot him a look, "you're a better man than I. Spent more time than I'd care to admit on that thing. Always gave me a stiff neck." He rubbed at his neck absently and shrugged in Derek's direction. "But I usually deserved it."

Derek didn't know what to say to that, so he just nodded. Maybe it was a family thing, the way they brought you in slowly, like sinking into a feather bed. A silent subtle fall into strong hands, a lighthouse for the wayward. Just a keen eye and an honest smile, and you could be living near the hearth fire and breaking bread.

John disappeared into the kitchen, and a few minutes later Derek could smell coffee. There was some clattering of cupboards, and the Sheriff returned with a large mug in one hand and a metal insulated cup in the other. He set the mug down and gave Derek a look. "Cream and sugar. Fend for yourself." He hooked a thumb back toward the kitchen. "And please tell my son to get to class on time?"

Derek started to tell him that the kids were all skipping class, but he thought better of it. Might as well let the man have his harmless illusions. "Sure," he said instead, and weathered the calculating look the Sheriff gave him on his way out the door.

By the slow, steady pace of his heartbeat, Stiles was still asleep. Derek let him stay that way and got up to fix his coffee, a little cream, lots of sugar. He circled through the house, testing the air near the windows and doors, until he was satisfied that nothing lurked.

Then, he sat at the dining room table, in the quiet, and listened.

 

 

Stiles came down not long after in a rainbow of mismatched flannels. He marched to the kitchen without so much as a look or a hello and started pulling open cabinets and drawers. Curious, Derek got up to follow him and stood just inside but out of the way, his hip checked against the countertop. Stiles had collected and arranged, so far, cake flour, eggs, milk, salt, and sugar. He moved with uncharacteristic precision, opening the fridge and retrieving butter. He set it on the counter next to his ordered row.

There was something different about him, something calm and intent and focused that Derek had never witnessed before, and it left him fascinated if not a little disconcerted. So he just watched as Stiles set up his bowls and measuring cups and found himself grinning slightly in bemusement as each item got measured. Not approximated: _measured_ , carefully so, as though a dusting of extra flour would end the world. Then baking powder, salt, some sugar. Stiles hunched down to eye the liquid level as he poured the milk, then cracked in two eggs, added vanilla, and mixed. He stirred the thin stream of wet ingredients into dry by hand, moving the spoon around gently, like he was mixing clouds. He finished by microwaving half the stick of butter for 48 seconds and swirling it in after he was sure it melted.

He never once turned or glanced in Derek's direction, but something buzzed between them anyway. An awareness. Stiles knew he was watching. Derek knew he knew, with no looks, no words. Just trust.

Stiles paused after placing the pan on the stove and setting the flame to low, his hand still gripping the handle. "It's the only thing my mom taught me how to make," he said, his voice low and almost apologetic.

For a second, Derek found it hard to breathe. Pain trickled in his chest and closed his throat. "Guess that makes it your best dish, then," he whispered.

Stiles's shoulders tensed then shook a little in a silent laugh.

When he poured the batter, the fingers of his left hand started flickering in sequence. Derek watched for a few seconds before he realized Stiles was counting. And that this was how he honored that memory, by following her rules. By doing it perfectly. A ritual and a spell to summon her ghost. His precision wasn't about the perfect recipe, but about the perfect memory.

One that he was choosing to share.

Derek found himself glad that he wasn't being asked to talk. He wasn't sure he could have.

He was witness to an offering and could not imagine why.

Stiles kept the oven on warm and stashed the pancakes onto their waiting plates inside as they were done. He sliced pats of butter and laid them in between, drizzled on real syrup with the same zig-zag pattern. It didn't take that long, but Derek could have watched for hours, that foreign, steady boy. When the last pancake was done, Stiles turned toward the French press and then spun around holding it accusingly in Derek's direction.

"You didn't make me any?"

Derek smirked at him. "I did. You were asleep. Make more."

Stiles sighed overly dramatically but did, in fact, make more.

As soon as they sat down, the old Stiles returned, and Derek was surprised at how bittersweet it felt. "Have you talked to Scott?"

"No." He tried a forkful of pancake and accidentally let out a soft sigh of pleasure. Stiles might have turned a little red. They both might have ignored that.

"Okay, well, I'm thinking we need information, and that Deaton's got to know something useful. I mean, that guy, he's like a cryptic dictionary of weird. So we head over there, see if we can get him to tell us anything. Which will probably be some kind of miracle. And since Scott's got Lydia, they can have her look through the bestiary and start translating. Yeah?"

Derek bobbed his head in a nod, too intent on eating to say anything. And anyway, he didn't have much to say. It was a serviceable idea.

Stiles nodded back at him like it sealed the deal and then started on his pancake stack, talking as he chewed. "I googled hekaloi, by the way. Nothing. Like six tons of nada, which is both astounding and terrifying. I mean, the info on werewolves was pretty decent but"—he paused to swallow—"these guys? I just . . . how does anything stay that off the radar?"

Derek shrugged. _Black magic?_

Stiles went on, "I figured I'd at least find a copy of that nursery rhyme of yours, but not even that."

So maybe the information on werewolves wasn't _that_ decent, Derek thought. But there didn't seem much point in telling Stiles so.

They finished and dumped the dishes in the sink. Stiles disappeared into his room to change and came back in an absurd number of layers: t-shirt, flannel, _and_ red hoodie. He took out his phone to text Scott. A second later, his phone beeped with a reply.

"Scott says Ethan got Danny to agree to the blood thing. _H-o-w?_ " Stiles spoke his replies as he typed them out. "Don't know. Lydia gave him advice. I'm so not asking." Stiles snorted. " _Could . . . be . . . educational._ " He made an offended noise at whatever Scott sent back. " _Totally . . . focused . . . dude. We're . . . going . . . to see . . . Deaton._ " The phone chimed, and Stiles read, "Check back in later." He looked up at Derek. "Good?"

"I'm driving."

 

 

Not that he'd ever say anything, because you didn't disrespect another man's car, but Stiles was so glad Derek had swapped the truck for the Camaro again. He figured he must have gone through some sort of alpha-life crisis and opted for the "more practical" vehicle once he had betas to cart around. Which was smart and all. Very adult. But the Camaro just sorta rocked. Felt wolfy and powerful and so very _Derek_. Stiles slid himself into the passenger seat and gave the dash a fond pat. Derek eyed him skeptically.

"What? I missed it. Many harrowing experiences in this car."

Derek's eyebrows said something condescending, and Stiles just sighed. So misunderstood.

"Take a left out of the driveway," he supplied absently.

"Stiles," Derek said in a give-me-your-attention sort of way that had Stiles looking over in question. "I know where the Animal Clinic is." He could have said it mean—snapped or growled—but he didn't. He actually sounded fond, like he was trying not to laugh or smile.

"Right." And Stiles tried not to smile himself.

On average, Derek was actually an impeccable driver. Careful, attentive, speeding just the right amount to not be worth pulling over. Whatever his choice of vehicle might say about him, the way he used it said, "Nothing to see here."

They turned onto Cherry Hill Road, which was a straight shot to the clinic. Stiles had his head down, staring at his phone. He was trying different spellings for what he thought _hekaloi_ might be listed under. Then he tried chopping off the last few letters and ended up searching _heka magic glamor -photography_. He grunted and chewed at one of his fingers as he scrolled.

"What?"

"Uh, well, heka was the name of ancient Egyptian magical rituals. And uh . . ." He lost his train of thought as he kept reading. Ancient Egyptian magical rites included the belief that spiritual powers resided in the body and could be acquired by ingestion. "Wow . . ."

“Can you be more—” he cut himself off. "Stiles," Derek said, weirdly alarmed.

Stiles snapped his head up to look at him, and Derek jerked the car to the left, throwing them both around in their seats.

"Wh—Dude!"

He looked ahead at an SUV barreling toward them. They were in the wrong lane. Stiles felt his heart jump into his throat. _They were in the wrong lane._ "Derek?"

"I know." He jerked the car to the right, but the SUV swerved to stay _in_ their way. _Shit._ Stiles twisted to look behind them. Another truck gained quickly, filling the rear window.

"Derek!"

"I _know!_ ”

He slammed on the brakes, tires screaming, and threw the car into a right turn. The engine of the SUV roared louder.

With a cry, Stiles curled up on instinct.

The world exploded.

Screaming, bending, breaking metal.

Everything blurred as they spun, and a second impact hit like a fist.

His chest hurt, and his _face_ hurt. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t _breathe_. Stiles swung his hands groggily at the cloud in front of him. Airbag.

“Der’k,” he coughed out a sound no more than a groan and blinked over to see Derek’s head thrown back, blood running from his nose. His window was busted.

Stiles tasted blood.

He reached for Derek’s shoulder, but someone was suddenly there, reaching through the shattered window. They started to pull Derek out of the car, and he came to as they hauled his upper body out. He jerked, and his eyes flashed blue, which was wrong. Then he started to struggle, slithering and clawing, bucking and slamming his legs around the inside of the car. Also wrong. One of the rescuers hollered and held something over his face and— Oh. _Oh._ Not. Not rescuers.

Stiles felt his pulse go through the roof as the realization struck him. He reached for his seatbelt to get free, and something hit the car door from the outside. His fingers slipped on the button. “Fuck, fuck!” And with a terrible rending the car door vanished.

Hands grabbed at his shoulders, his face, and he tried to wriggle away, bite the fingers that came near him. But they sliced the belt, lifted him bodily, and held something over his nose and mouth. Too many hands. Too strong. _Lavender_ , he thought as he struggled, kicked, _screamed_ into the fabric. Felt dizzy.

And then everything went black.

 

**

 

Isaac slogged back into the apartment, eyes red and watering from yawning. "I hate being on watch," he muttered, and fell onto the nearest couch.

Allison gave him a sympathetic smile. "Go sleep." And nudged his knee with hers.

He tipped his head back and slouched obediently, burrowing into the cushions.

"Not here," Allison laughed lightly at him, keeping her voice hushed as she traced a few fingers through his hair.

He grinned without opening his eyes. "Like it here . . ." And quickly nodded off.

Scott glanced across the dining room table at Aiden, who had been nursing a coffee for the last fifteen minutes. Aiden met his eyes briefly, then downed the rest of his cup and left, resentment in his stride. He still advocated running, but Scott held his ground, and whether it was pack dynamic or peer pressure, he'd won. Allison's father had taken Lydia to his office just after breakfast to see if they could find any useful books, which just left Scott feeling useless and Allison . . . Well, he didn't know how Allison was feeling.

Scott picked up his phone. Again. It hadn't chimed, but he checked it anyway, his knee bouncing in agitation at the blank notification bar. He set it back down. Picked it back up.

Allison slid into the seat that Aiden had vacated. "You keep checking it," she said, perfect brows pulled together in a frown.

Scott shook his head. "I haven't heard from Stiles."

"You texted him?"

"Yes. And then I called." Worry formed a ball in his gut, and he could see as its weight infected Allison.

"Well, did you try Derek?"

"Yes. Voicemail." Scott sighed and bounced his leg harder. He chewed his lower lip for a second, considering his options, then stopped when he reached a decision. He dialed work.

"Hi, Scott," Dr. Deaton said. "Calling to check your hours?"

"What? Uh, no. . ." Should he have been? "Have you seen Stiles?"

Deaton took an excruciatingly long second to reply. "Not lately. Should I have?"

"He and Derek should have been there over an hour ago."

"I'm sorry, Scott. The only person who's been here today so far is Mrs. Michaels—"

"With her cat, Ginger," the two of them said together.

Scott's stomach dropped. "Okay. Thanks. I gotta go." And he hung up before his boss could answer. His grip on his phone tightened, and he locked eyes with Allison. "They never made it to the clinic," he said. A cold, tight panic skated up his spine. "Something's wrong."

"You don't know that."

Scott's fingers shook a little as he scrolled for the Sheriff's work number.

"Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department, this is Sheriff Stillinski."

"Sheriff? Hey, it's Scott," he said, trying to sound normal and failing.

"Hey, Scott," the Sheriff replied, suspicion already lacing his tone.

"Have you seen Stiles?" Scott tapped a finger against the tabletop and tried not to look at Allison's concerned face.

"Last night. I left before breakfast . . . why? Is he not at school?"

Scott scrunched his face. "Actually, none of us are." And even though Chris Argent had suggested it, Scott could feel the apology in his voice as he said it. He'd seen the disappointed look on the Stiles's dad's face enough times already.

The Sheriff sighed heavily into the phone. "This is about those things following Derek. The heka—"

"Hekaloi. They told you?"

"Some. Scott, what's going on?"

"I can't reach Stiles," he said. "They were supposed to go to the Animal Clinic to talk to my boss, but I just called there and they never made it. And I don't—"

"Scott." The Sheriff cut him off, his name short and hard on his lips. Scott could hear the Sheriff's heart starting to hammer on the other end of the line.

"Sheriff?" he asked, leaning as though it would help him listen and locking eyes with Allison.

"The shortest route between the Clinic and our house."

"Cherry Hill Road."

And the Sheriff's heartbeat pounded harder.

"We—I gotta go."

"What?"

"Scott, I'm sorr—" The line went dead midsentence. Scott dropped the phone from his ear and stared at it in confusion. He could feel his own heart starting to race.

Allison leaned closer across the table. "What? Scott, what? What'd he say?"

"I don't—" He shook his head like clearing cobwebs. "I don't know, he hung up." He peered at her, the pain in his stomach twisting harder. "That's bad, right? That _has_ to be bad."

The look on her face agreed, even if she didn't want to say it. She bit her lip and sank slowly down onto her chair.

Scott could feel himself starting to vibrate with worry, and he struggled against a strange, almost foreign urge to howl like he had the night he found Derek. To call his to him and know in his blood that they were okay. Even though Stiles couldn't answer such a call. He should have been the first one able to. If anyone should be able to tell him _I'm here, I'm fine, Don't worry_ , it should have been his brother. That he couldn't made the power worth hardly anything at all.

So he paced. Fought against shifting and howling in the Argents' living room and paced, clutching his phone.

Isaac stirred on the couch and then his eyes popped open as the sense-emotions radiating from Scott smacked into him. "Scott?" he asked, tentative as he pushed himself up straighter. "What's wrong?"

Scott paused long enough to exchange a look but didn't trust himself to speak. He grimaced and kept moving.

Isaac craned around and looked to Allison for answers, but she shook her head lightly and offered a weak smile.

After fifteen minutes of tense silence, Scott's phone rang. He nearly stumbled over his own feet as he stopped to answer.

"Sheriff?"

"Scott. Scott, there was a car accident on Cherry Hill Road. I had to get—" He sound ragged. "It was a strange report. Three cars, no drivers, no victims, nothing. But when you said . . ." His voice grew thick, and he took and unsteady breath.

"What."

"Scott, it’s Derek's car. Smashed in driver's side door. Passenger door ripped off its hinges."

He felt his whole body freeze and start going numb.

"We f—we found their phones in the car."

"Oh my God. Was—was there blood?" Scott could feel his knees growing loose.

"No. Not really. The airbags deployed and the seatbelts were cut. Scott . . ."

"I know." It came out a whisper.

"He's my son."

"I know. We're gonna find them. We're working on it, I promise."

"Where are you? As soon as I'm done here—"

"The Argents' apartment."

Stiles's dad sucked in a breath. "If these things hurt him . . ."

Scott knew. He knew because he could feel in his chest just behind the shock. "I gotta go," he said quickly, and hung up. Because the rage clawed its way to the surface, burning bright and sharp. It passed through his edges, exploding outward, pressing the air from his lungs. And for the first time ever, really, he tasted the bloodlust for what it was and wanted it.

"Scott?" Isaac asked warily. He had gotten up and was edging closer.

Scott whipped around to face him, panting, and saw him flinch back in fear. _Fear_. He'd never wanted Isaac to look at him that way. And the realization cut through the spinning rage, sending its darkness scattering to all sides. The red bled out of Scott's eyes, and Isaac eased back toward him in relief.

"Sorry," Scott muttered, shaking and guilty, unable to meet Isaac's gaze.

"I heard what he said. The hekaloi have them, don't they."

"What?" Allison stood up from her seat at the dining room table.

Scott nodded miserably at them both, and Allison's jaw set.

"Dad!" she shouted.

It brought both Chris and Lydia running.

"Honey?"

Allison looked at her father and then at Scott, redirecting his gaze.

"They took Derek and Stiles," Scott ground out. The dark pain in his chest pulsed, and he could feel his eyes going red. _Pack. Protect._ He pressed his eyes shut and tried to force the power down, but it whistled with a dark wind that called to the coming full moon. "We need to find them." And someone needed to pay. He'd felt anger like this before, but whether it was the spark of an alpha or the darkness threading around his heart, the intensity shocked him. He rocked back on his heels and shook with effort.

Allison stared at her father. "The agora. You said Gerard was looking for it. How?" She spared Scott a worried look in passing.

Chris stepped further into the room, keeping a healthy distance from Scott and his red eyes. "Used to be that hunters used special dousing rods to test the energies of the area. If there was one around, the rods would lead them to it. Now, we track them down through radio waves. The agora emits a signal at 75hz. With the right equipment, we can zero in on that frequency and triangulate a location."

"Do you have the right equipment?" Scott asked, enunciating over his fangs.

Chris shook his head. "No. But if we're going to have any chance of finding it today, we'd better start now."

Scott heaved breathes like bellows and willed his transformations back. The deep desire to rend something with his hands ebbed as he kept his eyes locked on Allison. She seemed to understand and gazed back resolute and calm. When it calmed enough that he could trust himself to speak, Scott glanced around the room formulating a plan. "Isaac, you go with Allison's dad. I need to go see my boss."

"I'll go with you," Allison offered.

"And Lydia—"

"Keep translating," she sing-songed.

Scott nodded at her. "And tell Aiden to get back up here. You should keep him close."

Lydia smiled slowly at him.

"Not . . . that close," Scott amended rolling his eyes.

 

**

 

"So, what is it we're looking for?" Isaac asked as he climbed into the passenger seat.

Chris started the engine and pulled out of the driveway. "A bandpass filter pedal. Two of them, if we can find them."

"Okay." Isaac paused. "I have no idea what that is."

Chris smirked. "An old school, expensive piece of audio equipment."

"And that will help us how?"

Chris drew a deep breath and turned on the car radio. "Right now, somewhere, there's a radio station that's on the same frequency as the agora. Trouble is, we can't hear it because they broadcast too wide a range of signals at once. It just blends in. But, if we take a small radio, plug it into the pedal, and set the pedal to a specific frequency, we can narrow it down and hear only what the market is broadcasting. The closer we get, the louder the signal will get."

Isaac squinted at the radio in concentration. "Okay . . . but we don't know what station to listen to?"

Chris tapped the radio off and settled into his seat. "No. That's just . . . trial and error."

"Great," Isaac nodded and shifted in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. "So, where are we going?"

"Guitar Nation."

Isaac nodded again and gave Allison's father a long sideways glance. They hadn't really had "a talk" or _the_ talk, and it ate away him, the not knowing. Surely he must know about their dates, about all the time they spend together. He couldn't reasonably not know. And after all the . . . everything with Scott, another werewolf had to be some kind of blow to his fatherly pride. But he hadn't _said_ anything. Just . . . watched. With those cold eyes and stoic face and not a hint of sense-emotion coming off him to provide even a clue. People didn't mask themselves that well. Not that he had tons of experience or anything, but everyone else he'd met gave off _something_. Mr. Argent? Only when he wanted to.

That, if nothing else, kept a small sliver of ice pressed against Isaac's heart—a warning to be watchful.

Isaac scratched at his temple and shifted again.

Chris shot him a look. "Everything okay?"

"What? Me? No. Uh, no, yes. Fine." Very smooth.

Chris's eyes narrowed, but he turned his attention back to the road.

 

 

Grant at Guitar Nation knew exactly what they were looking for the moment they asked. And was equally sure that he hadn't seen a retro piece like that in a long time. Most guys who had 'em kept 'em forever, because nothing else worked quite the same.

Chris offered him a very white, dangerously pleasant smile. "Grant. It turns out that I really, really need one of these today."

Grant grinned uncertainly back. "I get it man, I do. But we just don't have any in stock. The good ones, you know, they're like hand-crafted."

Isaac offered Chris a small ghost of a nod—Grant wasn't lying. Even though there was no reason _for_ him to lie, it was still nice to know where you stood in your negotiations.

As he nodded in disappointment, Chris reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a wad of hundreds. Isaac tried his best to keep his eyes in his head. It hadn't quite sunk in just how lucrative being an arms dealer could be. Or that Allison's family was a cut above middle class. They didn't flaunt it like the others, like Lydia would have.

Chris peeled off a few bills and put them on the counter. "As you say," he told Grant, his voice caramel warm and liquid smooth, "components like this are difficult to come by. Now, I could drive all around town trying to find what I need, but . . . I'm going to bet that you know someone who wouldn't mind renting me one for . . . a day or so?"

Grant stared at the money and eyed Chris like he wasn't quite sure he was reading this situation correctly. Because it _sounded_ like a drug deal. "I . . . uh—"

Chris laid another bill down. "Extra hundred for you for facilitating." He smiled that blinding smile, and Grant automatically grinned back, looking more distressed than anything.

"Yeah, uh, I think my buddy Louis—"

"Why don't you give Louis a call," Chris said, modulating himself so it sounded friendly.

Grant nodded absently and turned away, digging his phone out of his pocket.

Isaac leaned in a little close. "Why does this feel so illegal?" he whispered.

Chris just gave him an amused look.

"We are . . . going to return it, right?"

Chris sighed. "Yes, Isaac, we're going to return it. Just . . . keep listening for bells, hmm?"

Isaac crossed his arms and stepped back, dutifully focusing his attention further and further outside the store. Scott had called him a guard dog once. He hadn’t really felt like one until now.

Grant did, indeed, come through, even though his eyes said he expected a cop to storm in the door. He gave them Louis's address, snagged his finder's fee, and looked incredibly relieved when they left the store. On to the way to the car, Isaac said, "I think he thought you were mob."

And Chris just smirked at that.

 

 

After the exchange with Louis, they headed to the pawn shop on Oak Terrace. It wasn't one of the nice ones, where the owner organizes everything, so Isaac picked through the whole music section for anything that looked like it had the right number of nobs, and handed them over to Chris for inspection. They spent a good hour and ended up with nothing. Super Pawn was across town, not far from the ironworks, and a veritable Walmart of unloved toys.

"Who buys this stuff?" Isaac muttered, trailing Chris through the unlabeled aisles.

The guitar pedals had their own section, far more than Chris could sort through on his own. He held one up as a sample. "The one we're looking for? One of these knobs will say 'frequency' or 'notch,' and the others will be for bandwidth or gain."

Isaac nodded.

"And the gain knob has to be positive."

"Right." Not that he knew why, but at least this way he could be of some use.

They started at opposite ends of the shelf and worked inward, setting the discards back in even rows. Isaac's heart jumped when he picked up one with a notch knob, but the gain numbers went negative. He gave it a disappointed scowl. As he lifted the next candidate, something in the air made him pause. He turned his head slowly to peer toward the front of the store, eyes searching, and drew a long, slow, scenting breath. Sickness stuck at the back of his throat, and he dropped the pedal.

"Isaac?" Chris's voice came out hard and wary.

Isaac scanned the aisle and moved himself into the center of it, hands ready at his sides. Adrenaline flooded his system as he tensed. "Tell me you found one," he said, not looking back. Lavender and rot drifted toward him, coating his throat with floral bitter. Behind him, Chris rifled through what was left. Isaac felt his heart start to hammer at his ribs because there, _there_ , the bells. "Mr. Argent," he called in alarm and started backing up, closing the space between them.

"I think I found one."

"You _think_?"

The _shrung shrung_ of bells got closer. So close he could pick out the individual chimes that made the whole. They sounded with regularity. With _footfalls_.

A man in a suit appeared at the far end of the aisle. He didn't saunter in or step into view. He suddenly _was_ , and Isaac gasped involuntarily in surprise.

"Is that—" Chris began to ask.

_"Run."_ Isaac growled out the word and turned to follow, even though it would take them away from the door. He barely glimpsed Chris's back before the man in the suit materialized again—just _there_ , right in his path. Isaac jerked trying to stop, but his momentum carried him forward so he swung wildly, unleashing a claw.

It grabbed his wrist, a swift effortless motion, and glowered with human eyes.

Isaac's eyes flashed gold, and he pulled at his arm.

The hekalus thrust a palm at his chest, and he flew. Slammed into a metal rack and toppled down amps. Isaac's chest, fuck, _hurt_. Like breathing glass, and he tasted blood. He threw the amps in the thing's direction as he tried to stand. It swatted them down, sometimes back at him. Fast. Efficient. _Shrung. Shrung._

An amp hit him in the face, knocking him down, and Isaac scrambled back up. Still on his knees, he threw himself forward, diving at it. He struck out with both claws, aiming for its gut.

Flesh. Wet. Tearing.

His hands sank in, a gross slide.

The hekalus grunted in what he hoped was pain. And Isaac gripped and twisted.

Black liquid thicker and fouler than blood ran down his hands. The stench of it made him reel, but he dug his claws in harder, roaring.

The hekalus beat down on one of his arms with a fist.

And it snapped.

He _heard_ it. Pain shot through his body. Mouth open in shock, Isaac let go, scrambled back cradling his arm. He heaved a breath and coughed out blood. Scurried back for every step closer the man came. The hekalus glanced at his wounds, then looked up and slowly smiled.

_Run. Runrunrun_.

Isaac's back hit the last row of shelves.

Cornered.

_Shrung. Shrung_.

He levered himself up, looked right. And darted left.

He barreled into the man in the suit and shrieked in surprise. Because he had not been there. _Had not been._ It hadn't run by him or ducked through the shelves.

Isaac pushed, trying to knock it off balance.

The hekalus grabbed a fistful of his hair to yank him upright, and then held him. Isaac raked at the arm, tearing cloth and skin, drawing more rank blood. He kneed the man in the groin, hoping to loosen his hold. The hold tightened, and Isaac's vision went bright and black as it punched him. Once. Very hard.

He panted, tasting and smelling of blood, and tried to look up. The hekalus smiled down—a row of perfect white.

A knife flashed.

And suddenly Chris appeared, driving the blade down through the thing's neck from the side.

It looked . . . startled. And let Isaac go to grapple with the flat handle of the throwing knife, already coated in its own blood.

Chris grabbed Isaac's shirt and yanked him up to standing. "C'mon!"

They ran.

Isaac coughed and struggled to breathe, leaving a trail of blood drops. Pain lanced through his chest and lungs, coal hot and sharp. His arm throbbed, and he held back small screams as the bone shards ground together.

They hurdled past the registers and out the door. Isaac staggered toward the SUV when Chris let go but fear carried him inside. They tore out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires.

Isaac concentrated on breathing. It came in short, short gasps. But that was all he could manage without his whole body flaring into pain. He winced as he tried to look at his arm, and wincing stitched needles of pain across his face. Strangled cries fell out of him.

"Isaac?" Chris asked, pressing a hand onto his shoulder.

"Hurts," he managed to say, his voice constricted to a whisper. Worse than the time Derek broke his hand.

Chris squeezed his shoulder a little. "Are you healing?"

He swallowed, and it tasted a little less like blood. "Think so. I don't—I need to—"

Chris put both hands back on the wheel and checked the mirrors. "I'm taking you home."

Isaac cracked open his swollen eye. _Oh God, the pedal._ "Did we . . . get it?" A bit of cool relief burst in his chest, and his breathing got a bit easier—enough that he didn't have to pant.

Chris touched the pocket of his coat. "We got it."

Isaac stared at the box-shaped lump for a second, frowning even though it ached. "Did we pay?"

And at that Chris barked a small laugh.

 

**

 

Allison drove.

Allison drove because the fear and worry and anger twined Scott into a thin wire, pulled taut by the coming full moon. The longer he had to think, the worse his imaginings got. Stiles beaten and left in a ditch. Stiles stabbed and bleeding out somewhere, shouting for him.

Stiles still. Forever pale, unearthly still.

He couldn't.

He _wouldn't_.

"Scott?" Allison asked, worry coloring the word.

He looked at her and followed the flick of her eyes down to his own knee, where blood spread into the denim around clenched claws. His brows furrowed in confusion and a bit of surprise, and he pulled the nails out slowly. The wash of relief as each wound healed loosened a bit of the tension, cleared a wisp of the fog.

"Sorry," he told her, for having put that worried look on her face.

Allison looked doubtful but nodded.

But it wasn't just Stiles. Mostly Stiles, sure. But Derek, too. That was a half-built bridge. And he could see it—the other side—even if he didn't know how to get there, couldn't tell what still stood in the path, because he thought he'd made every overture. Said the right things. But when Derek looked at him, there was still something distant in his eyes. Scott could feel the chill, the gulf. He'd thought he'd have a chance to fix it; figure out what it meant and what it was and make it better.

"We're gonna find them," Allison said, drawing him out of his thoughts turned maudlin. She believed it.

"They should have been with us."

Allison made the turn for the Animal Clinic. "It wouldn't have made a difference. They didn't attack the house, they attacked the car. Even if they'd spent the night with us, as soon as they left . . ." She shrugged and gave him a sad look.

She was right. Of course. But her being right didn't banish the guilt at letting his own be harmed. Allowing his pack to suffer. The rage pulled tight again, and Scott felt his pulse start to rise, his breathing cutting shorter. The dark roots around his heart constricted and thrust out thorns.

They would pay. _Someone_ would pay. Scream between his teeth and _die_ knowing his fury.

Allison pulled into the clinic parking lot and threw the car into park. She put a hand on his shoulder, and Scott looked at her with red eyes.

She didn't flinch or pull away, just caught his gaze and held it. "Scott." Her voice the definition of steadfast and calm. He had always been able to ground himself there. "We're going to get them back."

The red glow of his eyes receded and the burning mix of emotions that churned inside settled for a moment under her watch. She waited as he took a calming breath and then drew back her hand. He could still feel it there though, and drew focus from the memory.

Scott couldn't keep from jogging into the clinic. "Dr. Deaton!" he called as soon as he was through the door.

Deaton looked from the old woman standing in front of him to Scott and Allison and back. Unperturbed, he handed the woman a small medicine bottle and instructed her to start administering the pills that night, then twice a day for two weeks. Scott breathed shallow, impatient breaths and bounced on the balls of his feet while Mrs. Applebaum asked a dozen questions about new and different dog foods. His boss never glanced at him, which was entirely his way and completely irritating, and Scott had to clench and unclench his hands just to keep from causing a scene. Allison touched his elbow, and he managed to at least stop bouncing.

Mrs. Applebaum smiled at them on her way out, and Scott managed a strained grin before charging forward and into one of the exam rooms.

"You're here about Stiles?" Deaton asked as he closed the door behind them. "I told you, I haven't—"

"What do you know about hekaloi?" Scott said quickly.

Deaton's manner shifted, darkened, and he moved to stand across the exam table from Scott. "Why do you ask?" he said, sounding like an ink still pond.

Scott scowled. "Because they're here, and they have Derek and Stiles. And I _need_ you to tell me what you know." He tried very hard not to yell. The effort to be still made it feel like he was vibrating.

Deaton dropped his gaze to the metal table and pressed his lips together for a moment. "I know . . . that they use a very old, very different kind of magic." He looked up at Scott. "They come from Ancient Egypt. Heka was a kind of magical rite performed in those days. And at least one of the beliefs was that the flesh itself contains magical properties. If you consume the flesh . . . you transfer the properties. At some point, Egypt and Greece mingled."

"The reign of Ptolemy," Allison supplied, and Deaton nodded.

"The ancient Greeks," he continued, "had a goddess, Hekate, who was known for witchcraft and especially . . . necromancy. Now that could be coincidence, of course, but I rather doubt it. _I_ think, the practitioners of heka became acolytes of Hekate."

Scott shrugged and shook his head impatiently. "Okay?"

Deaton placed his hands on the table, spreading his fingers. "The acolytes of Hekate stored their knowledge in the library of Alexandria."

Scott sighed and let his eyes fall shut. "Which burned."

Deaton nodded slowly. "Which burned. Taking most of what we might know about their powers with it. The hekaloi maintain a body of lost knowledge all their own. What we know, we know from anecdotes at best. Theirs . . . is unlike druidic magic. We use energy—anam—in nature, in people. They use blood. Flesh. And bones. It's visceral in the worst meaning of the word. Extremely powerful, and extremely dark."

"But . . . you know how to fight them?" Scott asked.

Deaton's expression fell further. "I'm not sure I can."

Scott narrowed his eyes. "Not sure you can or not sure you will." Allison looped a hand around his arm at the harshness in his voice.

Deaton just stared him down. "I'm not sure I _can_ ," he repeated. "Druidic countermeasures work against druidic magic. There's nothing to say that any of what I might give you would work against something like that."

Scott settled back, swallowed his anger, and nodded bashfully.

Allison tipped her head to the side. "Do you know anything else about them? Weaknesses? Anything we can use?"

Deaton drew a breath and searched the ceiling for a moment. "Hekate was a goddess of . . . liminal spaces. Doorways, gates, crossroads. Of passing from one to another. The hekaloi have this . . . ability. They can rhipēt. Think of it like a short range teleport. They literally pass between moments of unobserved time."

Scott exchanged a questioning look with Allison. "What does that mean, unobserved time?"

Deaton gave him a thin smile. "It means don't blink."

Allison nodded thoughtfully. "Because if we're watching them—"

"It's not unobserved." Deaton tipped his head at her in agreement.

Scott thought back to Lydia's description of the attack. "Lydia said the one that came after her looked like a yoga instructor. But you're saying they're from Ancient Egypt. Shouldn't they be kinda . . . old?"

Deaton's eyebrows considered his argument. Then, "If you replace every part on your car with a new one, how old is it?" He paused a moment to let them consider. "But that's not the real question. Because what you're seeing isn't the real hekalus. What you're seeing, what Lydia saw, is just a glamor."

“Right, my dad said they can look like anyone.”

Scott's expression hardened. "Like Ms. Blake."

"If effect, yes," Deaton nodded. "But unlike hers, which was just a mirage, a trick of perception, theirs is more . . ." He searched for a word. "Substantial. It’s like a golem that they’re hiding behind. "

The information rolled around Scott's head. "So you don't think mistletoe will work on them, like it did on her."

"No," Deaton shook his head. "I don't. But . . . if you want to take some with you, I suppose it can't hurt. Poison is poison, all the same."

Allison leaned forward, leveling a steady gaze at Deaton. "We don't want to poison it, we want to kill it. Quickly."

He huffed a humorless laugh. "Well. With the glamor still in place, you're not even going to hit it. Not really. You can't shoot something you can't see. And you’re not really seeing them."

"So, then, we have to figure out how to see it," Scott said, annoyed.

Deaton glanced between the two of them. "Scott, I'm sorry, but this isn't my area of expertise. I can try to do some research on this sort of magic, but I'm not sure what I can do."

The muscle in Scott's jaw jumped, and his whole body drew tight with anger. He nodded, not trusting himself to say anything, and stalked out of the room.

When Allison caught up with him, he was already in the car with his seat belt fastened.

"We need to go see my mom," he said toward the window. "Ethan should have already brought Danny in."

Allison's replied quiet and wary, and somehow that just made his anger worse.


	4. Chapter 4

Consciousness returned in drug-addled drips, and Derek opened his eyes to nothing—to profound darkness that made his heart jolt. Fuzzy, indistinct sounds resolved into agonized gasping and the _beatbeatbeatbeatbeat_ of a too rapid heart.

The high, sharp scent of terror slammed into his senses and he flinched away from it.

“Stiles?” his voice came out a croak.

_Gasp. Gasp._ “I can’t”—gasp—“I can’t . . .”

A bolt of alarm had Derek fighting his leaden limbs to sit upright, and he strained, peering at the black.

“Can’t what?” His own pulse started to race. Mouth went dry. If he could just _see_.

“Can’t . . . f-feel my . . . legs.” Stiles wheezed and let out an aborted cry. Something heavy hit the floor.

Derek’s heart leapt. “Stiles!” He crawled toward the sound, his hands splayed on the cold concrete, searching.

It got worse. Stiles’s breaths came shorter, faster, and with a whine of fear.

Derek’s fingers touched fabric. He traced his hands up to a shoulder, his own confusion and fear making him shake.

“Stiles. What is this, what’s wrong?”

“Cah”—gasp—“feeh. Muh. Fay.” Pant. And then he keened, high and terrified. His whole body rocked with effort.

Derek ran his hands down, following Stiles’s arm. His elbow was bent and tucked toward his chest. Derek frowned as his hand wrapped around long fingers rigid and tightly bundled like sticks. “What—” He searched and found the other hand the same way. “Stiles, your hands!” His own chest heaved with panic.

Impossibly, the smell of terror intensified and the boy’s heart sounded like it might explode.

“Tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do!” Derek gripped him by the wrists for lack of any other ideas.

And Stiles _gaspgaspgasped_ , and then went slack. Pulse dropped, breathing evened. Passed out.

Derek swallowed hard and felt again the strange geometry of Stiles’s hands and fingers. They felt cold. He skimmed a hand down until he could reach an ankle, and skin was equally chill there. Lifeless. _Bloodless_.

He shifted until he could grab him under the arms and then hauled them both backward until he hit a wall. He pulled Stiles back against his body, resting his head against his chest, and held him in place with the cage of his knees. The rhythm of his normalized heartbeat gave him something to focus on, and he started working Stiles’s arms out of the jacket and hoodie, painstaking and awkward because of the way his arms clamped in so tight. But Derek could be methodical. Press and pull the fabric, rearrange their bodies to make space, let his hands find where they needed to be.

When he finally got Stiles free, he set the shirt aside and started on the left bicep. It felt heavier in his hand than he had expected. More defined than Stiles’s layers let on. Derek concentrated on the cramped muscles, pressing in and drawing down with his thumbs. If he could get some blood flowing, the arm might unwind. In theory.

For this, it didn’t matter if he could see. This was all touch and intuition. He kneaded gently, trying to coax, and worked his way down toward the elbow. Slow. Purposeful. Time measured in breaths. He tried lifting Stiles’s arm from where it pressed to his heart and it flexed more than before. Encouraged, Derek set his thumb in the soft inner joint and rolled, circled, circled. He held Stiles’s forearm in both hands and swept with even pressure, elbow to wrist. Each stroke, he added a little more pressure, and the cramped muscles began to give.

He felt Stiles come to, felt the shift in his breathing like a wave between them and then the way he held himself pristinely still. Derek had Stiles's wrist in one hand. He waited a moment, giving him time to ask questions or ask him to stop. His pulse quickened. Derek became aware, suddenly, that their bodies pressed together—that Stiles had weight, heat. And that he hadn’t said no. A frisson of energy shot through Derek’s chest and spread. He swallowed hard and concentrated on bringing his attention back.. He slid his thumbs up into Stiles's palm and worked around with large, slow, gentle circles. His fingers rubbed at the smooth surface of the back of his hand, and one by one he stretched those long fingers open, gripping each one and tugging so they slid through his hand. When he was done, he nudged a closed fist against Stiles's palm and told him, "Squeeze."

Stiles did, and though it was weaker than it should have been, he had movement. Derek let himself grin and breathe a little in relief. Then he leaned back and urged Stiles to pillow his head to the other side of his chest. The other arm was looser than the first had been, regular blood flow restoring itself on its own. Still. He felt better helping it along, and concentrating on the body beneath his hands meant not having to concentrate on the darkness or being kidnapped or what lay ahead.

Stiles didn't say anything, but perhaps all he needed to say came in the miniscule tremors that shook a little more every time he breathed. It felt like—

"Are you cold?" Derek murmured, keeping his voice low.

Stiles shook his head, rubbing it against Derek's shirt.

Hmm.

He made a few more passes on the right forearm and then moved into the hand massage.

Stiles let out a puff of air, and Derek took it as a good sign.

"Squeeze," he said, resting his fist under the curve of Stiles's fingers.

It felt strong, almost normal, and Derek let out a sigh of his own. The muscles in Stiles's back still shook with phantom cold. Residual fear perhaps? The ghost of terror.

Some nights, he woke up haunted, cold with sweat, and too fragile for the world. On those nights, he could only imagine a kind touch, a warm embrace; sometimes the memory of them helped. Maybe . . .

Stiles leaned forward, moving away. “Um . . . thanks.” He sounded breathless.

Derek dropped his knees to the floor, and Stiles crawled over him. They ended up seated next to one another.

 Derek leaned his head back against the hard wall.

"I thought you were having a seizure," he admitted.

Stiles huffed. "It's never been that bad before. Not—not even close. I just . . . the crash and then _kidnapped_. And then I couldn't _see_. I thought . . ."

Derek turned to face him in the darkness. "They blinded you."

”Yeah.” The word carried the shudder of shivers. Derek scowled and shifted a little closer. Either Stiles was cold and being an idiot, or he wasn’t cold and an even bigger idiot. He moved again, and their shoulders and arms touched. It was enough to feel the tremors. Stiles leaned. Derek let him. The small tremors slowly diminished, until it was just them, breathing in unison. Stiles smelled like lightly floral shampoo, cinnamon, and . . . safety. The thought made Derek's heart pound a little harder, because he wasn't sure quite when that had happened. It was difficult to tell how time passed with only breaths and heartbeats to go by. Eventually Stiles asked, "Why am I here?"

Derek angled his head toward him. "Is that an existential question?" he rumbled.

Stiles nudged him with an elbow. "No, furball, it's a practical one. You told me they only hunt supernatural things, right? They make magic out of your powers."

"Out of our bodies." It might not sound like a difference to Stiles, but it made a difference to him.

"Right. But I'm just a human. 100% Grade B human. What—why would they want that?"

Truth be told, he'd been too intent on making sure Stiles was okay to question why he'd been there at all. The hekaloi should have left him in the car.

"I don't know," Derek said.

Stiles grunted. "It worries me." He wobbled his knee, bouncing it lightly off Derek’s.

Derek touched his knee to make him stop. "We've been kidnapped and tossed in an earthen pit. You should already be worried."

"I _was_. Did you miss the panic attack? And now I'm more worried. Thank you." He elbowed Derek lightly in the ribs again and then settled. He left their knees touching. Derek stared hard at the point of contact, invisible, and then looked over to where he should have been able to see a constellation of freckles on pale skin. Search for a telling hint of a smile—a clue.

Derek curled his fingers away.

Stiles was right. There were no scenarios in which being trapped in here with him didn't end badly.

"How are you doing?" Derek asked, after the silence got too heavy.

He felt Stiles shrug. "This day could have gone better."

Derek scowled pointlessly into the black. "I meant from earlier."

And Stiles turned away. "I know what you meant."

 

**

 

Aiden stalked into the office again, and Lydia paused, holding her pen just above the surface of her notebook. Irritation pressed her lips together a little tighter, and she waited. He would come around the side of the desk, put his hand on the back of her chair, and lean over slightly to see what she had written. She knew this, because he’d done it once every fifteen minutes or so.

As his hand went for the back of her chair, she spun suddenly to face him and flung out her hand. “Out!”

He blinked. “What?”

“Get. Out. How am I supposed to concentrate!”

“I—”

“You’re pacing.” She jabbed her finger toward the door. “Do it somewhere else.”

Aiden frowned and took a step back. “We shouldn’t even be here,” he said as he turned away.

She gave him an unimpressed look. “I come here all the time,” she said absently and turned her attention back to her writing.

“I meant we should be halfway to San Francisco by now!”

Again, she stopped and didn’t look at him. “I know what you meant,” she said quietly.

He rushed back toward the desk, bracing himself against it. “Then why are we still here!”

Slowly, she lifted her head, her perfectly painted face both fierce and deadly calm. “Because I’m not going to let him die.” She stood and leaned across the desk toward Aiden, red lips shining. “Because I will _not_ just find bodies,” she said, slow and distinct, and held his gaze.

Aiden’s eyes flashed red, but he looked away first and pushed away from the desk.

“You don’t know,” he said, as Lydia seated herself again and smoothed her hair.

His tone caught her a little off-guard, and suddenly a sentence about black linen bindings didn’t seem quite as intriguing as it had a second ago. She narrowed her eyes at his back.

“Don’t know what?”

His shoulders rose and fell a few times with heavy breaths. And then he turned around.

“How do you think we ended up omegas?” he asked, a surprising vulnerability in his eyes.

It sounded like a real question instead of an accusation. But . . . “I thought you were alphas.”

“Now. We weren’t always.”

Lydia set her pen down and watched him with interest.

“And we weren’t always omegas either,” Aiden went on. “The hekaloi come, and they ruin everything. Take everyone. I had a family. Parents, grandparents. They don’t care how young or how old. _Werewolf_ , that’s what they care about.”

“They killed your family,” Lydia said, feeling a hollow open behind her breastbone.

Despair passed unguarded across his face, and Lydia felt her blood jump at the rare display.

Aiden turned for the door. “Everyone but Ethan.”

Lydia frowned a little at him as she fit this new piece of information into place. "But . . . shouldn’t that have made you alphas? If you were the last?" That's how it'd worked with the Hales, anyway. Derek's sister certainly didn't kill their mother.

Aiden’s body lifted and fell in a sigh. "We were pack, but we weren't blood."

That, she thought as she stared at him, was a lot of families to lose. “This time will be different,” Lydia told him, but he didn’t react, just walked back out in the apartment to pace out of sight.

She stared after him and whispered to herself, “It'll be different.” Because she was done playing bloodhound for the dead. Done watching corpses through a veil of tears. And very much done playing damsel.

She set her shoulders straighter and scanned the line about the black linen again. _Restraining . . ._

No.

_Binding . . ._

She tilted her head and pressed her lips together.

_Gluing._

 

**

 

Scott got back into the car and gave Allison a small smile as he set his backpack carefully between his knees.

"Good?" she asked.

"Good. Mom says she kept enough to do a real test on Danny and will send him the results on Thursday." He thought for a moment and then looked at her sadly. "Still feels like we're lying to him, though."

Her eyes were sympathetic. "We are."

"Would it have been better," Scott asked, "if I'd told you sooner? About all this?"

Allison's face grew still with serious contemplation and she gazed out the windshield at the hospital building.

Scott had always wondered if he'd made the right choice. If somehow telling her on their first date would have been a better option, no matter how crazy that might sound.

"I don't think so," she said finally. "When I found out, a lot of things made more sense. The worldmade _more_ sense, not less. You know? Like it was solving a puzzle?" She glanced over at him. "Telling me earlier wouldn't have solved anything."

Scott nodded and buckled his seat belt. "Guess we should head back."

On the way, he got another call from the Sheriff. "We just got finished clearing the wrecks off the road, so I need you to tell me what I can do, because I cannot sit behind a desk right now filling out paperwork."

Scott checked the clock on the car stereo. Almost noon. "We're just heading back to the Argents'. Can you . . . pick up some food and meet us there?" Pick up some food? God he was the worst leader ever.

Sheriff Stilinski sighed. "You want me to—Scott, I should be putting together a search party, and you want me to swing by McDonald's?"

Scott scrubbed a hand down his face. "We're pretty sure we know where they are. We just don't know how to find it yet. Mr. Argent is working on it. I'm sorry, but if you want to help us, this is all I've got."

He could practically feel Stiles's dad counting to ten in his head, and he could definitely hear his heart rate calming down.

"Burgers or pizza?" John asked, sounding defeated.

Scott shot Allison a questioning look. "Do you want burgers or pizza for lunch?" he whispered.

She gave him a queer smile and mouthed _pizza_.

Back into the phone Scott said, "Uh, pizza? Their address is—"

"Scott. I'm the police. If I didn't know it, I could get it."

And then he hung up.

Scott sighed so deeply it touched the ache of worry inside and he spent the rest of the ride staring out the window in silence.

 

**

 

Isaac followed Chris back into the apartment still cradling his arm to his chest. He wasn't a step into the living room before—

"Oh my God." _Allison._

"Issac!" _Scott._

They fluttered to his side, all wide troubled eyes and soft tones.

"What's all over your hands?" Allison said, urging him toward the kitchen sink.

Scott's face scrunched. "It smells like blood, but worse."

He eased his busted arm open enough to get it under the running water and then let himself be ushered to the couch.

"What happened?" Scott asked and looked up at Allison's dad who unpacked some bags on the dining room table.

Isaac winced when he took a breath to speak. "One of them found us."

Allison slid a hand around the back of his neck and squeezed lightly, then looked over her shoulder at her father. "Dad!" Her voice was heavy with accusation.

"I'd be dead if he hadn't been there," Isaac told her and exchanged a look with Chris.

Scott very carefully touched his fingers to the bruise on Isaac's cheek, still blue and ugly. At the time, Isaac hadn't thought anything had been broken, but he might have been wrong given the swelling. Scott moved his fingers delicately, like a caress, assessing, and Isaac couldn't help but shiver. Scott moved his thumb over the worst part, and Isaac gasped.

Whispered _sorry_ s fell from Scott lips.

The sudden breath broke a shower of pain in Isaac's lungs, and Scott cocked his head at the sound of wet rattling.

"I think my chest is worse," Isaac told him.

Scott's eyes went wide, and in one motion he swept his hand up and under Isaac's shirt, pulling it up to reveal a starburst of blue, green, and purple bruising. The jostling moved Isaac’s broken arm, and a small pained cry escaped him before he could stop it. Scott froze and seemed to notice for the first time the way Isaac cradled his forearm, fingers curled protectively to his chest.

“Your arm too?” he asked, sounding so worried.

Isaac swallowed down his guilt and nodded. “Broken.”

Scott pressed his eyes shut for a second and then with light gentleness touched his palm to the center of Isaac’s chest and let the shirt fall back down. He took the wrist of the broken arm in his other hand. A look of concentration chased the concern from Scott's face, and all of a sudden cool clear relief washed through Isaac's body. It tickled the top of his head and brushed the soles of his feet. He arched with a gasp. The pain from his crushed bones vanished, flowing in thick black threads into Scott instead.

"Better?" Scott asked.

Isaac stared at him, unsure what words could quite capture the sense of being lifted and held. Of feeling safe enough to relax. To let go and enjoy a small respite from pain and worry. He stared, wondering how long something like this could possibly last. How long before Scott would refuse to take the pains away. How long before he’d replace them with new ones of his own.

But here. Now. Nameless emotion tightened in his throat and then burst, leaving tears in the corners of his eyes.

Scott looked stricken. "What, does it still hurt?"

Isaac sucked in a breath and struggled to pull the tears back, battling the urge to laugh or sob.

“Isaac?” Scott uttered his name low and urgent.

He blinked, getting himself under control, and swallowed down the feeling. _Gratitude_ , he thought. “Better," he rasped. He let his head fall back against the cushions and closed his eyes.

Allison traced cool fingertips across his forehead. “How long can you do that?” she asked Scott.

“Awhile,” was the reply. “But he needs to eat something.”

Her fingers traced a line down his cheek that made him shiver, and then the couch bounced as she got up.

Isaac cracked his eyes open. “You know you don’t have to do this.”

Scott gave him a slight shrug and small, fond grin. “I want to.”

“I won’t heal faster.”

For some reason that brought a sad smile to Scott’s face. “I know.” He rubbed his thumb over Isaac's pulse and didn't look bothered when he must have felt it jump.

They both looked over as Allison returned with a sandwich on a small plate.

Scott laughed softly. “Peanut butter and jelly?”

Isaac pouted at him. “I like peanut butter and jelly.”

Scott gave them both a dopey grin and a slight shake of the head. “Okay, but he’s gonna need more protein than that.”

Allison made a face and started to get up, but both wolves turned suddenly toward the door making her halt. “What?”

Isaac sniffed, slowly grinning. “Pizza.”

“Stiles’s dad is here.”

 

 

The smell of food brought Aiden and Lydia out from the office, and for a few minutes the pack was silent, eating quickly as time and worry drew their patience thin.

“Tell me everything,” the Sheriff said, leaning against the wall near the kitchen. He looked at Scott, but Lydia cleared her throat.

“They’re Ancient Egyptian from the time of Ptolemy, which also makes them a bit Ancient Greek. Thus ‘heka,’ Coptic for spells and ‘loi’ a Greek plural suffix. They collect the flesh of supernatural creatures and use it to make potions. Or . . . to do grafts.”

The wolves all turned to her looking distinctly disgusted.

"They . . . do what?" Isaac said, setting his pizza down.

"Grafts," Lydia replied with clinical detachment. "Like skin grafts for burn victims, only it's for everything. That lavender you keep smelling? It's the ointment that keeps it all from”—she twirled her hand in the air—“falling off."

John made a face and nodded at her.

“And these things look like . . .”

Scott swallowed his food. “That’s one of the problems. They have a glamor. It’s like Ms. Blake making herself look pretty, except it’s more than that. It’s like a whole fake body that’s not even really them.”

Lydia sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s what the medallion’s for.” She gave Scott a wide-eyed looked. “It kept saying ‘front body,’ which didn’t make any sense. I thought I must have had it wrong, except I don’t get things like that wrong. So, that must be what it means.”

Allison looked at her. “That the glamor is caused by a medallion.”

“Yes. Destroy the medallion”—Lydia snapped her fingers—“break the spell.”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “Okay . . . but how do we destroy it if it’s behind the glamor that we can’t break through?”

Lydia opened her mouth to reply, then snapped her jaw shut.

Scott looked to the two adults in the room, and then both shrugged. His shoulders sagged. He thought for a second and then got up, taking out his phone.

The Sheriff watched him and then turned back to Lydia. “Anything else?”

She pursed her lips. “They look like black mummies? I mean—mummies in black bandages. Also, they probably won’t kill them until midnight.”

Allison straightened. “Why midnight?”

Isaac gazed down at his plate when he answered. “Because that’s when the full moon will be at its highest.” He look at her. “When Derek will be strongest,” he said quietly.

Allison gave him a long look and then glanced at Lydia. “Is that all?”

She shrugged. “So far.”

Scott came back in the room and slipped into his seat. “Deaton says he didn’t know about the medallion but he may have an idea of something he can try.”

“That’s kinda vague, isn’t it?” The Sheriff said.

Scott shrugged and huffed. “Actually, for him that’s pretty specific.”

Chris finished plugging together one of the radio-pedal setups and shot Scott a worried look. “Tell him to hurry. We’re not going to want to wait until _exactly_ midnight to get them out of there.”

Scott pulled out his phone again and typed out a message.

“Out of . . . where, exactly?” John peered at the audio equipment with confused interest.

Chris ran through an explanation of the agora skotadi, showing John the vial of blood they had to gain entry and the equipment they were going to use to narrow down its location.

“So we find it, we go in and do some recon—” John started to say, but Chris smiled, shaking his head.

“Oh, no. You”—he laughed—“you can’t go in.”

The Sheriff drew himself up and pushed off the wall. “And why the hell not? If you think I can’t handle—”

“I _think_ ”—Chris raised his hands in a placating gesture—“that you’re not . . . dark enough for the part.”

John’s look hardened.

“You’re too much of a cop,” Scott offered, and it came out sounding fond. John turned to look at him. “Seriously. No one would believe it.”

The Sheriff sagged and rubbed at his forehead. “I can’t do nothing, Scott.”

“You won’t. I promise.”

Chris lifted the two sets of detectors. “But right now, we don’t even know where we’re going. So . . .” He looked around the table expectantly.

 

**

 

Chris took Isaac, again, over Scott's pouting and insistence that he shouldn't be put in any more danger. He'd only backed down because Isaac had leaned into his ear and told him that it was okay, that he wanted to go. Scott had listened for a lie and not found one. He couldn't afford another hole in chest, another ache that resonated with the absence of someone he cared about. Two was enough. Two was _plenty_ , even if Derek didn't know that he was being counted. But he couldn't strip Isaac of the right to choose, either.

And he'd heal. In a couple of hours, the bruises and fractures would be gone. Scott knew it, and still the instinct to hover and shelter itched in his blood.

Isaac could put on a good front. He'd had a lifetime of putting on fronts. But sometimes, when Scott said the right thing or touched with an open palm, he saw the boy beneath. They'd hold it between them like a secret. And it would last until the sharp edges of the world intruded, and Isaac's heart would close like a snapping locket, and Scott would have search again for the key. Sometimes Allison joined him, and they searched together.

Since Isaac was riding with Chris, Scott, of course, went with Allison.

He plugged the output from the bandpass filter pedal into the aux in on the car stereo, then turned the small FM radio connected to the pedal on. Allison's dad had set the pedal to full gain, so what they needed now was the right channel on the radio. Scott turned up the car stereo and started cycling up the radio stations on the hand held set. He concentrated, listening for something regular and buzzing in the empty static or beneath the sound of voices. The music stations were the hardest, and sometimes they spent several minutes just waiting for a song to end so he could listen to a moment of dead air, just to be sure.

They were running out of stations, and Scott started to shake his head, wondering if he'd been listening for the wrong thing or set up the equipment wrong.

Nothing through the 105s.

He moved the needle toward 106.5, and a Sacramento station, KBZC, started playing Imagine Dragons. Scott's attention drifted for a second, and he started singing quietly along.

"Scott," Allison said, trying not to smile.

He looked over at her, still singing, and lifted his eyebrows in question.

She laughed a little despite herself. "You're supposed to be—"

"Oh! Right. I got a little—"

"Distracted?"

He smiled down at the radio. "I love this song." They had danced to it once. They'd made love to it once. But he wasn't sure if she'd remember that.

Allison gave him a small, cheeky smile. "It's a good song." Her inflection told him that she did, and it made his face heat a little. "But . . ."

This was a time to be serious, and Scott shoved his smile away, stopped singing along, and just listened. During a part of the bridge, a part of the song he knew well, he heard something different. Something like a chord where there shouldn't have been. His eyes popped open, and he turned the volume up higher.

"Scott?" Allison asked, sounding excited.

He held a finger to his lips and closed his eyes again.

Something in the tone wavered, like it wasn't quite perfect, making the chord he'd heard appear and vanish until the song ended. But then, in the gap of silence, it played on.

"I got it," he said. "I got it!"

Allison tapped on her phone. "Isaac, channel 106.5."

They were all still sitting in the parking lot of the apartment building in their separate cars.

"Can you hear it?" Scott asked. Allison didn't bother to turn on speakerphone.

"Hold on," Isaac said, then a few seconds later, "It changes a little."

"Yeah, I heard that, too."

"All right, let's go," Scott heard Chris say. Across the lot, his SUV backed out of its space.

The plan, crude as it was, was to start at opposite corners of town and work their way toward the center. The signal should get louder the closer they got. Allison and Scott headed for Industry Bridge, to start at the south western edge of town, while Chris and Isaac headed up toward Commerce and Falls St. in the north east.

 

**

 

The Argents had more than just a bestiary in their collection, and Lydia might have fallen just a little bit in love. Her ancient Greek was nowhere near as good as her archaic Latin, but it was passable for rough translations. No one was asking for poetry. They had transcribed diaries from hunters dating back millennia, whole compendiums of alternative histories and folklore than stayed, as it were, within the family. These must have been the source of the _agora skotadi_ name for the hekaloi's bazaar. Highly unoriginal, if you asked her.

Lydia scanned down the page for keywords like φονεύω, to kill, or βλάπτω, to hurt. The hunters didn't seem any more interested in things like that back then than they did now. But if she wanted a recommendation on a strength enhancing potion or something to sap a werewolf's endurance, well, there was that in detail. Had seriously no one in the history of ever tried to stop one of these things?

She sighed and stared at the wall in thought. Her vision lost focus, and something tugged at the back of her mind. Like a memory. Like a dream.

It started with a crackling and made her think of chill weather and sitting by the fireplace.

Then, lightly, the smell of smoke.

Something hot touched her hand, and she flinched with a shriek, blinked—

Flames roared up the bookcases, red and liquid. Heat blasted back toward Lydia's face, stinging her eyes. And when she took a breath, the ash made her choke. It tasted thick and bitter, and she dropped to the floor to try to get a clear gulp of air as the fire spread, shelf to shelf. It splashed up toward the ceiling, charring the paint black. Her eyes watered from the heat, and she started to crawl out from behind the desk, aiming for the door. She heaved a breath and coughed painfully, but kept moving, arm over arm, scrabbling.

"Lydia?"

_Run!_

But her voice wouldn't work, so she scurried out into the hallway just hoping he would follow.

She emerged, shaking, into clean, cool air and pressed herself up against the far wall. Her mascara ran in black lines down her cheeks, and she heaved, trembling, as she stared back into the office.

"Lydia?" Aiden crouched at her side and touched her shoulder cautiously.

She whipped her head over to stare at him, blinking out a few tears, and lifted a hand to point back into the room.

Sheriff Stilinski appeared over both of them wearing his professionally concerned expression. "What's wrong, what's going on?"

Aiden shrugged up at him. "I don't know, she just—"

"Fire," Lydia said, her lip quivering until she made a conscious effort to stop it.

The Sheriff darted into the room but came back a second later, frowning.

"What?" she looked up at him, and his frown took on a cast of apology.

"Lydia, there's no fire."

"No, b-but I saw it. The bookcases. The ceiling!" She wiped at her tears, smudging her makeup further, and sniffed as she pulled herself together. "I saw it."

The Sheriff and Aiden exchanged a look, and Aiden stood to help her to her feet.

"Okay," John said gently. "But . . ." He motioned toward the office, inviting her to look for herself.

She dropped Aiden's hand and forced herself to walk back in on her own. Fear flexed its heavy muscles, but she was a _survivor_ , and not as easily cowed as she once had been. She stood in the middle of the room and made a slow sweep all the way around, pressing her lips together hard to keep them from shaking. The books were pristine. The ceiling untouched. And the air as cool and clean as it should have been. Lydia's fine brows knit together in a frown. She had _felt_ the heat, the way it dried her skin. Ash and smoke had burned her throat.

The Sheriff stepped closer. "Was it maybe, you know, your thing?" he asked, trying to be sympathetic.

Lydia turned slowly and arched an eyebrow. "My _thing_?"

John deadpanned. "Yes, your thing. Stiles told me you have, you know, an ability. Was it that?"

Her gaze traveled to the nearest bookcase. "I don't know."

"Well how does it work?"

"I don't _know_!" she said louder and wheeled on him. "I was in here, trying to find out how to kill one . . ." She motioned at the room helplessly.

John's eyes narrowed. "So . . . you wanted to see how one died."

"Yes! I—" Lydia stopped and stared at him then flicked her gaze over to Aiden. "Fire," she said. Then she hurried back behind the desk to make notes. "It makes sense. They were sorcerers, witches. How do you kill a witch? Fire. How do you make sure someone is really dead and not coming back? Also fire." She thought for a second and then flipped a few pages in one of the diaries.

"What does _that_ look mean?" the Sheriff asked coming to stand on the other side of the desk.

Still frowning, Lydia looked up at him. "I think it's the bandages."

His eyebrows lifted in reply.

"It holds them together, right? But bandages don't just keep something in. They keep the rest of the world out."

He nodded at that. "So, the fire destroys the bandages, makes them vulnerable."

Lydia shrugged one shoulder. "That's my working theory."

John grimaced. "I'd rather not bet my son's life on a theory."

She didn't have a reply to that and sank onto the office chair quietly.

"Better than nothing," Aiden said. He circled around the desk and put a hand on Lydia's shoulder.

She blinked up at him and then flipped her notebook to a blank page and tore it out. "I need you to go to the school and get some supplies," she said, and started listing out the makings of the molotov cocktails. She held the list up toward Aiden, but the Sheriff snatched it out of her fingers. He frowned down at it.

"And what is this for?"

Lydia shrugged with nonchalance. "Self-igniting molotov cocktail."

" _Fire bombs?"_ John managed to look appalled. "You expect me to let teenagers assemble fire bombs with stolen property?"

Lydia stood up slowly, gripped the list between to manicured fingers, and slid it out of his grasp. "Actually, I was expecting you to help."

Aiden took the list and got out his phone. "Ethan's already there. I'll have him grab what we need."

 


	5. Chapter 5

"I love your blue eyes."

Stiles lifted the silence that had settled between them with soft words. He had started and held back a few times, evident by the changes in his breath and heart. Derek didn't know what he was expecting to finally break out of him.

It wasn't that. And the shock held him frozen.

"I think . . . you prolly think they're ugly," Stiles said. "But they're not." He swallowed loud enough to hear. "Because—because if eighty percent of what Peter said was true? Then you did it cause she was suffering."

And ice blade slipped between Derek's ribs, and he forgot how to breathe.

"You loved her, and she was suffering," Stiles went on, sounding different, distant—too old too young. "And . . . I mean you can't just watch something like that. You know?

"When you love someone that much, y-you can't just watch them suffer. You can't." A scratching sound told Derek that Stiles was picking at his jeans.

"It's terrible," he went on, voice the hollow of empty hallways. "It's . . . this . . . terrible kind of mercy. But there's nothing else you can do. I mean, what else can you do? You can't fix it. And—and you can't let it go on because . . . because it's just pain.

"So you have to.

"And it's . . ." His voice drifted for a second and came back thick with emotion, barely audible. "It's the kindest thing. Because it hurts so much. And you're gonna carry it forever. And it's like the last good thing you're gonna have a chance to do. And they're just gonna take that piece away with them."

He took a breath to steady himself.

"And I think . . . I think loving someone like that is beautiful."

Stiles paused and shrugged ever so slightly. "I just . . . if we don't make it out of here, I wanted someone to have said that to you." And then he grew quiet.

Derek stared hard into the darkness, struck dumb, barely breathing around the ache in his heart. He wondered who else knew. Maybe no one.

Stiles nudged him lightly with his elbow. "Derek?" he asked, growing doubtful. "Did you hear me?"

Derek let out a long, stuttering breath. "Yeah," he whispered.

"I heard you."

 

**

 

Aiden looked up sharply from Ethan's text, shoved his phone back in his pocket, and darted for the door just as the doorbell rang. It was too early for the Sheriff to be back with the glass bottles. He scented the air and shifted, growling.

"Open the door." The muffled voice of Peter Hale said, sounding tired.

Aiden undid the locks and opened the door part of the way, blocking it with his body. "We're not interested."

Peter scowled at him. "I ruined my favorite jacket for you."

Both wolves perked at the sound of Lydia's heels coming closer. She appeared at Aiden's side and nudged him out of the way as her gaze locked on Peter's. He flexed his shoulders and hunkered a little in distress.

"I figured you'd be dead," Lydia said.

Peter's mouth flattened. "You'd be surprised how often I hear that." He glanced to the side, pride momentarily quashed. "Apparently, I wasn't worth it."

Lydia made a hum of polite disinterest. "I'm in the middle of something, so . . ."

Peter brandished the laptop that housed the Hale's collection of lore. "I found something I thought might be useful."

From over Lydia's shoulder, Aiden growled again, but Peter kept his eyes on her. She gave him a long, calculating look and then turned briskly aside to let him in.

"For the record, I don't trust you," she told him with a smile.

"For the record, that's probably wise," he muttered back.

They settled at the dining room table, Lydia and Aiden standing behind Peter's shoulders as he opened the laptop and brought up some files. "What do you already know?"

Lydia ran through the information Chris Argent had given them on the agora skotadi, and some of her more illuminating findings on the history of the hekaloi.

"I think," she said, "that in order to kill one, we have to burn it." She grinned at Peter's pained expression. "Your turn."

"Yes. Well." He seemed suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin and shot her a withering look. "The agora isn't just a bunch of tables and tents. It's a magical manifestation that they've built over milennia. I assume your hunter friends know about the key?"

She grinned tightly. "Innocent blood. Got it covered."

"Right. They know what it is, but they don't know why. The blood doesn't get poured onto the lock, it gets poured into it. And from there"—he made a stepping motion with his fingers—"it drips down through a grating in the floor." He brought up an old, crude drawing on the screen.

"What's in the floor?" Lydia tried not to sound too interested, but Peter looked up and offered a feral smile.

"A heart." His voice felt like a caress, and Lydia edged away. "You see the blood animates the heart." He curled his fingers, mimicking a beat. "Gives it something to circulate. And that innocent blood starts to travel."

"Where?"

His eyes gleamed. "The door. It's not _just_ a door. Look." He pointed to the drawing again and the poorly rendered sticks that made up the— "Bones. Held together by sinew. And look here, an eye above the door. I don't think that's just macabre decoration." He waved a splayed hand over the whole of the image. "All of this is covered in skin." He waited for her reaction, but she only stared back at him, looking expectant. "It's _alive_ ," Peter said with irritation. "Hunters used to find it using—"

"A dousing rod. I know."

"One that was attuned to a particular vibration. Something in that market produces a sound, Lydia. A wail so twisted it's beyond hearing. What do you think that is? Hell, what do you think it started out as?" He raked her with a suggestive gaze, and Lydia felt her body go cold, and her banshee throat tighten.

Peter eased off. "It has a heart, and skin, and bones, and an eye, and somewhere muscle. And _that_ is what the blood is for, to uncramp the muscle that keeps the lock shut."

Lydia leaned down close, putting her face right in his. "Fascinating. Why do I care?"

He rolled his eyes and gave her a withering look. "I know you're only _half_ the braintrust, but I've been inside your head, remember?"

"He what?" Aiden started, but Lydia cut him off with a gesture.

She pursed her lips and stared into Peter's blue eyes without blinking. "You think you can break the lock."

 "I think they'll be in magical potion Wonderland. And I _think_ that if you start killing people in their homes you should make sure you have a way out. Something for sale in the agora should be able to put it to sleep."

"Or kill it," Aiden added.

Peter's glare could have cut stone. "Yes, I'm sure that won't draw any attention." He looked back to Lydia. "All I'm saying is once your hunters are inside, they need to make sure they can get back out. And I think this is the best bet."

Lydia crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. "Really."

Peter sighed and lowered the laptop lid. "I'm trying to help."

"No."

He cut her an annoyed look. "Derek is my only fami—"

"No."

He stood up just for the opportunity to tower over her. "What is it you think I'm after?"

She slid into his space, tilting her head up. She breathed through parted lips until she saw his gaze flicker and then placed a hand on his chest. "If I knew that," she said, tapping one finger. "You wouldn't be here."

Her smile was composed of ice and anger. Peter smirked down at her. "You are _so_ my favorite."

She made a small sound of disdain and amusement and spun on her heel, motioning for Aiden to follow. They had table space to clear in the Argents' basement. As they rounded the corner, out of sight of the dining room table, Peter called, "So, anyone want coffee?"

 

**

 

The further they went along Oakwood, the weaker the hum seemed to get. Scott shook his head, his expression pinched as he tried to listen beneath the host yammering and the tracks playing.

"I think it's getting weaker," he told Allison.

"Are you sure?"

"I—it's really hard to hear, but I can't even make it out. I think we should go back."

She nodded and checked the traffic before pulling a u-turn.

Scott jumped when the phone in his pocket buzzed, and he scrabbled to pull it out. "It's Isaac," he said. "He says they're pretty sure its coming from somewhere in the northern part of town and we should head that way."

Allison made a thoughtful sound. "And you think it's coming from the west."

"We should head for the clinic," Scott said. "If we go back over the river and head toward work that'll take us up the whole west side of town."

He texted back to Isaac asking their location.

"He says they're near the old bank."

Allison glanced at him. "Tell him to head west."

Scott grinned because he was already typing it and then put his phone in the cupholder. He hunkered down as much as he could wearing a seatbelt and concentrated on the radio. He sang tunelessly along to "Rolling in the Deep" until Allison couldn't hold back a laugh and then bit his lips to keep silent. The hum wormed its way back into the signal, and by the time they were on Cherry Valley heading for Circle St., he didn't even need to concentrate to hear it.

"I can hear it now," Allison said.

Scott grabbed his phone and asked Isaac if they'd crossed Northern Bridge.

_Just did. Can't even hear the radio._

_You should stop. We'll come to you._

Scott looked over at Allison, his heart skipping in excitement. "They think they're close. We should start heading over toward Northern Bridge. Maybe we'll . . ." Scott's voice trailed off as an idea formed. He hit Isaac's quick dial. "Hey, put it on speaker."

"Okay," Isaac replied, sounding distant.

"Mr. Argent, do you think it'd be on a telluric current?" Scott asked.

There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. "I . . . guess that would make sense. There's a lot of heavy magic involved in a place like that. The hekaloi wouldn't have to expend as much of their own energy if they could draw it straight from the ground."

Scott nodded. "We're gonna need Danny's map. I'll call you right back." He disconnected and called Stiles's dad next. "Sheriff—"

"Hold on, Scott, I'm in the middle of—let me put this on speaker before we blow ourselves up."

Scott shot Allison a worried look, and she tried to keep her eyes on the road.

"Okay, go ahead," John called.

"Okay." Scott wanted to ask about the blowing themselves up but opted to go straight to the point. "Stiles had a map that he took from Danny. It has colored lines on it. Do you think you can find it? Probably somewhere in his room? We used it when trying to stop the sacrifices."

Lydia answered. "Why would you need to find the map?"

"Beeecause I need to know where the telluric lines are in the western half of town?" Scott scrunched his face, like, duh.

Lydia sighed and made a frustrated sound. "Don't. No, too much. Be careful!" she hissed, and someone else on the other end made a pained sound.

"Lydia?" Allison said, concerned.

"Yes! Telluric lines. You don't need the map because I remember it, so just give me an area."

It was difficult not to be impressed. "Okay? Somewhere around Northern Bridge on the west side."

Lydia hummed and told someone on her end to hold something and _not_ shake it around. "One second. Try . . . Clayton and Conejo."

Scott smiled. "Got it. Way easier than finding the map. Uh, so, you guys don't blow yourselves up, okay? Please?"

"Trying our best, Scott," the Sheriff replied, sounding pained.

Scott hung up and called Isaac and Chris back with the new location. Chris suggested meeting up in the In-N-Out parking lot a few blocks away.

They pulled up next to the SUV a few minutes later, tucked in the most remote corner of the lot. The back hatch was already open, and Scott and Allison found Chris unzipping duffle bags and popping open gun cases. He handed Allison a small duffle.

"Suit up."

Scott and Isaac both watched with piqued interest as she pulled a series of leather harnesses out of the bag and laid them out. She started with a set of gators that covered her lower leg from ankle boot to knee. As she slid the buckles in place, Chris extended a hand, offering her small, thin silver bolts.

"What are those?" Scott asked, as she carefully placed each one in a holder around her mid-calf.

"Electrified darts," she replied, glancing up. "One use each. You just hold the button on the back"—she stood up and showed him—"and stab." With a quick flick, she had the point close in toward his neck, smiling.

Scott grinned warily back at her.

She finished placing the darts in their holders and then moved onto the set of hip and thigh holsters for her knives. As she flipped the ring blades around her fingers, Isaac took an unconscious step back.

"You know, those really hurt," he said. And maybe he was a bit closer to Scott when he said it.

Allison gripped the handles so the blades were aimed down and gave him a look of regret and aborted apology. Scott wondered if they'd talked about it, about the attacks and the violence that had passed between them. He brushed his fingers against the back of Isaac's hand just once and heard his slightly raised pulse calm.

"They're pretty badass, though," Isaac added, which made Allison smile.

"Well that is the idea," she said, tossing in a wink.

She added a belt of sonic emitters and flash grenades and then pointed to the leather jacket draped over the back seat. Chris grabbed it for her, and she threw it on over the weaponry. The jacket came to her waist, leaving the blade handles within easy reach. She zipped the jacket all the way to her chin. It fit  skintight. She grabbed a quiver from the back of the truck and loaded it with a selection of arrows, then strapped the quiver over one shoulder and slide a throwing blade into the strap that crossed over her chest.

She gave herself a once over and then looked to Scott and Isaac. "What do you think?"

Isaac considered the question with his jaw hanging open. "I'm . . . frightened and a little turned on," he said with a nod.

Scott grinned. "You look like _The Matrix_."

She flashed them both a smile.

Chris had traded his army surplus style for a similarly black-leather-clad look, although he bristled with more guns and fewer arrows. He closed all the bags and cases and slammed the SUV's door shut.

"Got the blood?" Scott asked. Because this would be a really short trip if they didn't.

Chris reached into a breast pocket of his jacket, touching the vial to be sure, and then nodded.

"So . . . how are you gonna know what you're looking for?"

"We'll know," Chris replied. "By feeling. Like, when you know you're walking in to danger. How you can feel the menace? Sometimes a dark street is a dark street, and sometimes it's a dangerous one." He shrugged. "Tonight we're looking for the dangerous one."

Scott looked doubtful, but they didn't exactly have many options. _Any_ options. He caught and held Allison's gaze. "Please find them."

She took both his hands in hers and squeezed, then turned to her father. "Let's go."

 

**

 

It was sensory deprivation.

They had been together long enough that he had become accustomed to Stiles's scent and so perceived nothing. Two senses sliced off.

Only hearing.

Only touch.

He wanted to drift, to sleep. He was so close to the edge already that it was barely falling. But sour fear devoured his guts slowly, giving him something to focus on.

Stiles kept fading in and out, succumbing to boredom. Derek could tell by the change in his breathing when he drifted off. And every time he came to, his hands reached for something, usually finding Derek's arm or leg, and gripping before he remembered he couldn't see and adjusted, then relaxed. Derek’s blood rushed maddeningly in those seconds because it felt—

It felt like something else . . .

Stiles talked in his sleep. Of course he did. And jolted awake once from something Derek was sure had been a nightmare that Stiles didn't want to talk about.

Now, he was sleeping again, and Derek wondered if he should be doing something else. Clawing at the walls, trying to dig, looking for something to break. They were just . . . waiting. The soul withers in the endless doldrums of waiting.

The sound of Stiles breathing tugged at him. So peaceful. Hard to ignore. He'd been keeping his eyes open  to force himself to stay awake, but they were so heavy.

He was in the half-lucid state of near-dreaming when he heard a low, throaty gong.

Derek responded instantaneously and on instinct, hopping into a crouch and slapping a hand across Stiles’s chest to pin him to the wall, keep him within reach.. Stiles gasped awake at being jolted and grabbed at Derek’s arm.

"What—?"

"Shhh!" Which worked for all of a second.

"Derek?"

"Shut. Up!" he breathed the words on an exhale and listened harder. It sounded like it had come from above, and he craned his neck up to look, momentarily forgetting how pointless that would be.

Time passed. It didn't feel like very long, but Stiles started to fidget and shove at his hand. And Derek started to wonder if he'd dreamed the sound completely.

_Gong . . . ong . . . ong . . . ng._

"That," Derek hissed.

"I didn't hear anything," Stiles whispered back. He swallowed. "Can I breathe yet?"

And Derek suddenly realized how hard he was pressing. Slowly, he eased off and settled back against the wall as he had been, only with nerves twice as frayed. He let his arms fall to his sides.

"What did you hear?" Stiles asked, and Derek could tell by the sound that he'd turned to face him.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Like something heavy hitting. Like a thud but more metal. I thought—" He smirked at himself and shrugged again. "Actually I don't know what I thought." For once he was glad for the overwhelming darkness. So Stiles couldn't see his face burning from embarrassment.

Stiles let out a huff of amusement. "Probably something along the lines of 'Holy fuck, we're going to die.'" His voice came out thin and strained.

Derek didn't know what to say to that. Because the truth was they probably were. Unless Scott worked some miracle. But true alphas were their own sort of miracle, so maybe anything was possible. At least with Stiles here, Scott would have a reason to come looking.

God, what a selfish thing.

He smacked his head back against the wall and apologized silently for thinking it.

He'd missed something in the minutes of personal wallowing, which he only knew because Stiles sat forward, taking his heat with him, and sniffed—s _nuffled_ —and sucked in a breath. Derek could smell him now, the fear and sorrow shifted his chemistry. _Crying._ He was crying as quietly as he could. Derek gave him a moment and then reached into the darkness until his fingers connected and he could press his palm against the broad flat muscle of Stiles's shoulder blade. He reached up until his fingers curled over the top of his shoulder and then tugged lightly. Stiles sniffed again and exhaled.

"I'm sorry," he croaked.

Derek frowned into the emptiness at him. "For what?"

And Stiles sighed, leaning back, and pressed his face into Derek’s shoulder. "I'm not as strong as you. As any of you." He sounded small when he said it, and Derek had to suppress a hysterical, startled sort of laugh that sank in and started to ache.

"Yes, you are," he replied, his voice a little thicker than a moment before.

Stiles scoffed. "You're not the one crying."

He couldn’t stand him like this, so close and breaking. Close enough to kiss. Christ…

Derek rocked to make room, then slid his arm around Stiles's back to hug him in closer. He tried a few times to form the words right, to tell him how that was no measure of anything valuable. "I would, but I forgot how," he said eventually. He felt Stiles angle his face toward him and then drop it back to rest on his shoulder. And it didn’t—did not—make Derek’s whole body burn.

 

 

**

 

Isaac and Scott watched Allison and her father cross the street and head in the direction Lydia had given them. It was a business district. Lots of mixed-use buildings, small offices, retail spaces, and storage. The look of worry on Scott's face said he hoped they knew what they were doing. It was already dark, and they had about seven hours before the hekaloi started doing things to Derek that Isaac really truly didn't want to begin thinking about. His chest was almost entirely healed, but he could still feel the terror of the short encounter. Scott clapped Isaac on the arm, startling him from the memory, and motioned toward Allison's car. She'd left the keys in the ignition, and they needed to get back to the others.

Now that night had fallen, Isaac could feel the coming full moon more strongly. During the day, it was easier to ignore the edginess, the itch. There was so much to do, so much world to focus on. But the world got small at night, insular. When everyone got quiet, it was harder not to listen to your own thoughts. He peered over at Scott. Nights had gotten worse for him, too. Isaac had heard him a few times pacing in his room. He'd called to him once, knowing he could be heard through the walls, but the reply had been short and cutting. The next morning Scott had apologized without prompting, but he'd kept his distance for the rest of the day, even finding some way to miss lunch and avoid everyone. That night he'd followed Scott out into the preserve. There was no way a beta should be able to sneak up on an alpha, but either he was better than he'd thought, or Scott was too distracted to care.

He'd killed a deer.

Chased it down at a dead run, tripped it with a swipe of his claws, and gone for the throat. Isaac had watched, breathless, from a tree branch downwind. He could hear the deer's heart racing, so he knew it wasn't dead. He'd expected Scott make a swift kill, then stand up, shift back, not so different from a sports hunter, even if Scott had never been the hunting type.

Instead, he started tearing. He slashed its sides and ripped open its belly while it screamed. Isaac had dropped down and rushed forward. He cut open its throat, putting an end to the creature's misery, and stared at Scott in dumb horror. Blood dripped down his face and splattered his clothes. He had glared at Isaac with red, angry eyes and heaved ghastly breaths. It wasn't his Scott looking back at him, and Isaac had shifted back into human form, holding up his hands in supplication. He remembered watching as Scott licked the deer's blood from his lips, still glowering, and the slow deliberate motion made his whole body shake with his pulse.

"Scott?" he'd asked, terrified.

The red glow of Scott's eyes had dimmed, and then he shifted and passed out, dropping like a sack onto the deer corpse at his feet. He wouldn't wake up, not matter how violently Isaac shook him. And so Isaac carried him back home, stripped him out of his bloody clothes, and put him in a bath. He shook the whole time, sure that Scott would wake up angry that he'd seen him, angry that he'd interfered. If he'd woken up naked in a bathtub with Isaac washing him down, he couldn't be blamed for any violent response.

But he hadn't. It had been like caring for a man-sized bag of sand. The toweling off was a little awkward.

A lot awkward.

Awkward enough that he thought he and Scott weren't mentioning the whole incident on account of how Scott must have figured out who gave him a bath, except Scott didn't remember anything beyond going up to finish his homework. He thought he fell asleep studying. Isaac decided to let him think it.

He hadn't meant to start keeping track of Scott's moods, but it was an old habit.

Isaac glanced across the darkness of the car and watched as the streetlights strobed Scott's face. The muscle in his jaw twitched. Angry, then. He absorbed the sense-emotions more fully and amended that: a color of worried that included anger. Isaac went back to staring out the passenger window. They drove past Meadowlark, and he watched a woman in a pickup watch them passing the intersection. Their gazes connected just a moment too long, and it touched something hardwired in Isaac's brain. He whipped around in his seat to look out the back and saw the truck pull out one car behind them.

"What?" Scott asked, checking in the mirror.

Isaac frowned. "I'm not sure." He turned back around, uneasy with indecision. "Don't head back yet," he said.

Scott flicked his hands up in question, not quite letting go of the steering wheel. "If I don't head back, where am I supposed to go?"

"Around. It doesn't matter." Isaac craned around again. "We're just . . . testing something."

Scott sighed dramatically. "We don't have time for this."

"Change lanes." Isaac watched for the truck's headlights two cars back. "Please," he added, glancing over his shoulder.

Scott put on the turn signal and moved into the left lane when there was space.

Anticipation had Isaac digging his nails into the seatback. He tried to hide the shadow of his body behind the seat and headrest just in case, peering between the cracks.

"Well?"

"Make the next left." He kept his voice low without meaning to.

Amazingly, Scott did as he asked, and just as they made the turn, the truck swerved over two lanes to follow.

Isaac's heart did a flip, and he faced forward. "Okay, definitely being followed."

Scott shot a look at the rearview mirror. "Is it them?"

"Who else would it be?"

"I don't know! Do they drive trucks?"

The headlights behind them drew closer, and Scott stepped on the gas. They were heading toward a residential area.

"We need to turn around," Isaac advised. "Some place with more people."

"More people," Scott repeated, as though he were thinking.

The truck's engine roared behind them, and Isaac turned around to a wall of blinding light. "Scott," he said in warning. It bore down. "Scott!"

Scott cursed, and Allison's sedan shot forward from impact, skidding and then taking off under its own power. Scott's eyes flashed red as he swung them around a corner and slammed on the gas. Isaac had to grip the handle over the door to keep from being battered around.

The truck came up fast behind them again, and Isaac could've sworn he smelled lavender in the air, even though that would be ludicrious.

"Hold on," Scott ground out, and then swung the car again, screeching the tires as they whipped around another corner.

They both panted, checking mirrors. The truck took the turn wide, crashing over the curb and clipping a parked car.

"Yeah, still there," Isaac said.

Scott glared as the roadway disappeared beneath them. "I have an idea."

"Okay."

"It's kind of a terrible one."

"Not feeling better about it."

They took another left.

"The mall's just up Paterson."

Isaac frowned over at Scott. It _was_ just up Paterson. Except they were on the wrong side of a divided street. Which meant a light. Which meant stopping.

The truck rammed into their bumper.

And they were _not_ stopping.

"I'm gonna regret—"

"I said it was a terrible idea." Scott grimaced.

They got to corner going somewhere near 80, and Scott whipped the car _into_ oncoming traffic. Horns blared everywhere, screaming as they passed. Isaac curled up on instinct clinging to the arm that gripped the handle over his head. He couldn't breathe. Might even have been shouting. Scott's eyes burned red, and something about his movements became loose and fluid. He wove them between oncoming cars, skipping between lanes, sliding into and out of the shoulder. The horns and screeching tires merged into a single panicked sound of worldly protest. Isaac flinched every time they got in the way of another car and ended up having to look at Scott instead.

He didn't look terrified or out of control.

He looked determined and filled with that alpha swagger that read as confidence.

Isaac couldn't look away.

Scott jerked the steering wheel to the left, and they sailed into the mall parking lot. He aimed for the end with the movie theater and let the car slow.

Isaac slowly unwound himself and let go of the handle. His breath came in short huffs.

Scott parked the car in a nearly full row but kept his hands on the steering wheel just staring, staring. Then he blinked and looked sharply at Isaac. "Don't _ever_ tell Allison."

Isaac shook his head. A lot. Because if Allison didn't kill Scott for endangering her car, she'd kill Isaac for letting him.

They both turned around and looked out the back for the truck.

The coast looked clear, so Scott pulled out of the space, trying to cover his own trembling now that the adrenaline had worn off, and took them on a long loop around the mall parking lot. He chose an exit that would take them the wrong way and started on a circuitous route back the Argents' apartment.

After a long, tense silence, Isaac looked over. "That was some pretty sweet driving, though."

Scott cracked a smile and relaxed a little. "Thanks."

"Let's agree to not ever do that again."


	6. Chapter 6

Long after the scent of salt and sorrow had faded, Stiles stayed tucked against Derek’s side, using him as a pillow. Nothing changed for hours. Even the fear slowly digesting Derek’s insides had given way to boredom.

Sometimes the darkness became a thing he could feel, pressing on each exposed inch of flesh, and it surprised him a little when he moved his hand and met with no resistance. Sometimes it was an endless nothing, a void waiting to be filled. He could feel himself dissolving into it, his edges blurring. If not for Stiles pressing against him, he would have reduced to a singularity, a simple crossroads at which sound and awareness met every so often and then departed.

A few times he drifted so far from his body that he couldn't remember the last sensation, and the realization would make him flinch. Sometimes he closed his eyes so the emptiness felt more like a choice. The lie could be a surprising comfort.

He could feel himself starting to drift again and brought his attention back to the body leaning against him. The rise. The fall. He wasn't asleep. The quality of his silence changed. Derek wondered when he'd learned to read so personal a language. But then, he couldn’t remember when Stiles had been around and _not_ a presence glowing bright in his awareness. His senses narrowed on that warm glow.

"You're thinking so loud you could wake the dead," Derek told him, whispering to keep from startling him.

"What? That doesn't even make—I wasn't even doing anything!" Stiles protested.

Derek shrugged. "Could still hear you."

Stiles snorted softly.

"So what was it?"

"What was what?"

Derek rolled his eyes and it came out in his tone. "The thing you were thinking about."

They were both quiet for a second. Then Stiles’s heart sped up. He radiated something—trepidation?—and lifted his head from Derek’s shoulder. Short, hot breaths brushed Derek’s cheek. Then Stiles slid a hand onto his leg just above the knee.

Derek’s breath hitched.

"Can you feel the full moon?" Stiles asked.

Derek tilted his head toward Stiles, half his attention on the sparks shooting their way up his spine. "Yes."

Stiles leaned a little closer. "What does it feel like?"

"I—like an itch under my skin," he said. A pull at his bones, like longing.

"Does it hurt?"

"No." _Your hand . . ._

"But it's because you're trying not to change?"

He could barely follow the line of questioning. "I know how to control the shift on a full moon," he ground out. Even Scott was getting the hang of it.

"Yeah, I know, that's not—" Stiles sighed, still _not_ moving his hand, and tried again. "Would it stop itching if you let the shift happen?"

Derek's jaw dropped for a second in surprise. "I—yeah, I guess."

"Then you should."

He couldn't imagine why Stiles was asking him to shift. How much pondering had gone into that question? How much close observation of the wolves around him? More, when had Stiles started to think it was worth investigating whether he was lonely, or hurting? Worth caring enough to ask. He couldn't—

Laura had given up asking when she could no longer stomach the answer.

No one after that.

Decades of practice had gone into maintaining his composure and keeping close his secrets. But they were alone and unseeable. So he gave in, even if only because Stiles asked it. He jerked and rolled his neck, letting his features change, fangs descend. His eyes flashed blue.

Derek sighed.

"Better?" Stiles asked, and he took his hand away as he started to move.

"Yeah." Derek breathed his reply. It _was_ better. Like letting a spring unwind, or the moment when a knotted muscle relents.

Derek kept still, unsure of what was going on. He felt knees press on either side of his legs and realized he’d been straddled.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice altered by the fangs.

Stiles breathed deeply.

“Stiles?”

“Shh.”

He frowned up at him, sure what the racing of his heart must mean, unsure that he should let this go. A hand touched lightly on Derek's chest, then clumsily against his chin. He started to form a question, but those long, gentle fingers kept moving, tracing from the stubble of his beard to the long wolf hairs at his cheeks. He gasped as they touched, fascinated with the way Stiles moved his fingers through this inhuman part of him. He traced the shape, tested the coarseness.

The soft pad of his thumb touched along Derek's upper lip but kept moving. A slow, tender advance.

Derek's breaths came in small, regular gasps as he gave the whole of his attention to the tips of the Stiles's fingers. He was exploring. Mapping, with all the intensity he could bring to bear.

When he found the ridges of new bone that resculpted Derek's shifted face, he slowed. Derek felt his heart jump as all that incredible focus turned on him, peeling away his layers. He was at the same time concealed in darkness and utterly exposed. The touch was so light, ghosting. He shivered.

Stiles traced along his brow, following the curve, and touched the small spot just above his nose.

Derek gasped and pulled away as sparks shot down his body, pooled in his legs.

"Oh, God. Did that—? I'm sorry."

Derek blinked into the darkness at him, too stunned to form a response.

"Did I just—oh, God. Did that hurt? Did I—Did I just _violate_ you?"

"What?"

"You have to tell me. Okay? It's just . . . I was curious. I didn’t mean—you have to tell me that, okay?"

 _What?_ Derek could feel Stiles above him, looming and worried and keeping his hands to himself.

"No. It, no . . ."

Stiles exhaled in relief.

"I just . . ." he frowned at himself, embarrassed, and mumbled over long teeth. "I didn't know what it would feel like."

"You . . . but you've had girlfriends."

Derek's eyes fell shut, and he turned his face away. "I never shifted when we were close," he admitted in a small voice, shredding a bit more of his dignity.

After a moment of silence, Stiles's voice drifted to him. "So no one . . ."

He shook his head, then remembered that wouldn't be enough. "No." Such a small word to crack with so much need.

The chasm inside hadn’t seemed so dark or so deep, until someone tried to fill it. That was a wish he’d stopped making long ago, because wishes signaled to the world that you had something to lose. Wishes were wounds.

This one slipped in through the side door unannounced.

The hands returned, warm and dry as they drew along the column of Derek's throat, urging him to look up from his shame. For a moment, Stiles held Derek's cheeks cupped in his palms, intimate and steadying. And then lifted his palms so that just the sensitive tips of fingers made contact.

"Okay?" Stiles whispered.

"Okay . . ."

And he became undiscovered country. Stiles caressed his shifted skin like it was precious, and Derek shuddered. This side of him, this face, saw only war, knew only pain. He _gaspgasped_ when Stiles traced his heavy brow line, smoothing away his instinctive frown. Sucked a startled breath when he drew a single finger down between the ridges. Touched that lava liquid spot. It sent ripples across his skin, raised gooseflesh down his arms. A feeling of vulnerability hovered around his heart, and he struggled to let it be. To tremble with it.

It felt a little like falling, and like turning his face into soft grass. Like being warmed by sunlight. Skin that had never felt kindness drank it in and shivered with delight until it bordered on overwhelming.

Stiles brushed a thumb across Derek's lips, and he didn't remember what such things meant.

Gentle lips touched against his own, and he surged to meet them, seeking warmth, solace, before realizing, _thinking_ —

Derek pulled away and pressed a hand out against Stiles's chest. "I can't," he said brokenly. _Wishes are wounds_.

The hands vanished, and Stiles leaned back, seeming to disappear into the darkness. Both their hearts pounded loud, so loud.

"Define _can't_."

Even unable to see each other, Derek couldn't quite face him. "You're seventeen. I could be arrested." True, and not all the truth.

"Oh my God, are you kidding me!" Stiles exploded. "We are gonna die in this _pit_ , and you're worried my dad will arrest you? Seriously? You know what? No." Out of nowhere, Stiles shoved him hard, cracking Derek's head back against the wall. "Fuck you."

And then he left.

He scrambled away into the void, putting more space between them than there had been for hours, for what felt like days. Derek felt his absence like a knife blade and cursed himself, cursed the frightened thing in his chest that shook with too much emotion and threatened to shatter. He hadn't meant to get here, on the precipice of falling. Or to mean something to anyone anymore, to hurt anyone else that way. Suddenly a chasm gaped between them that only brave men cross.

He could hear the quick beating of Stiles's heart. He'd stopped moving further away, which meant he'd found the far wall.

It wasn't right. Whatever Stiles must be thinking, it wouldn't be true. And if they weren't going to make it out, he had to do better. Just once, do better.

Derek shifted back but held the glow of power in his eyes, letting them shine. It wouldn't help him see, but Stiles could see him. He crawled forward, easily led by sound and the scent of sorrow. As he neared, he swept one hand out, searching back and forth. He found a foot, but Stiles jerked it away from him. It felt like a slap.

"You don't understand." Derek's voice shook. "You don't know what you're asking."

"Really? I was asking for a kiss, Derek, not a wedding ring." His sarcasm didn't quite cover the quaver.

A twist of emotions hit hard in Derek's chest, knocking out his air. Fear and loneliness and guilt and shame and things he didn't have names for that ached in his bones. Pains he'd never spoken drew claws down his throat.

"I—You don't," he tried but nothing fit. "I can't—I-I don't—"

"Complete a sentence!" Stiles shouted.

"I don't love lightly!" Derek roared back, breathing furiously. His whole frame lit with fire.

A pregnant silence, and then he heard Stiles swallow.

"No . . . no, you don't, do you." He didn't sound angry anymore.

Derek reached in the direction of his voice, but came up short. He sent a surge of power to his eyes to be sure they still glowed and knuckled forward to try again. This time, he brushed against a shirt and set his fingers on Stiles's shoulder. He pressed his hand along until he could brush trembling fingers into the hairs at the nape of his neck.

Stiles swallowed hard and held himself very still.

Derek leaned in, slow and cautious. His lips found the corner of Stiles's mouth, and kissed there, a quick promise. Then he angled them together. It was warm and chaste, a gentle declaration that opened up a lake within. He drew back and left only their foreheads touching. The moist vapor of Stiles's breath touched his lips and cheek. Derek open his eyes wide, so they would glow the brightest, and he moved his fingers over the curve of Stiles's cheekbone, just visible in the faint light. He felt him shiver.

The lake of unexplored emotion broke its shores, and tears brimmed at his lower lids. He shouldn't want this. Shouldn't _care_ quite so much. And knew better than to bother having wishes. But Stiles laid a hand along his cheek, and he turned into it anyway.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"Shut up." Stiles pulled him down into another kiss, a little more wet, sucking at his lip, a little less chaste. He could feel the hunger there and fought against the draw of being devoured. It was too much, too quickly. The wound of having cracked himself open too raw.

He held Stiles's face in both hands and eased them apart, leaving caresses in apology. He moved away to prop himself up against the wall nearby, shaking, and pressed a hand over his mouth for a moment to try to calm himself. Too many things he wasn't ready to say stuck in his throat. Even though if he could trust anyone, it was surely the boy who had carried his life so often in his hands.

Still. Trust was a minefield. And there was so very little of himself left to try again.

Somehow, even without being able to see him, Stiles was aware of him, and moved unfalteringly to his side. Probably, he supposed, even mirroring his pose. Their shoulders touched, then bent knees. Their hands brushed together, and Stiles carefully interlaced their fingers, his hand shaking a little until Derek met him half way. He couldn't, he realized, remember the last time someone had done that. It wasn't the type of thing people wanted from him. It scooped out his insides and left a brittle shell. Stiles communicated his attention through the slow, light glide of his thumb along Derek's wrist.

He should say something, but he didn't know what. How to start. He had so many broken edges for someone to cut themselves on.

"You're still shaking," Stiles observed, confused. He paused for a moment and then unlinked their hands. There was clamoring and hands on thighs, and then Stiles settled between Derek's legs and leaned back against him. He searched until he found one hand and drew it over himself like a blanket. Derek's body convulsed in silent amusement, and he brought the other arm across Stiles's chest on his own.

The tension he'd been holding melted in a sigh, and the trembling eased.

"Better?" Stiles asked softly.

Derek bent until his mouth found Stiles's shoulder. "Safe," he said without thinking.

Stiles turned, dragging his nose through the stubble of Derek's cheek. "Holding me makes _you_ feel safe?"

Derek nodded into his shoulder.

"Huh." Stiles faced forward. "Suddenly I feel like a human shield."

Which wasn't at all what he meant. Derek lifted his head to reply, but Stiles shushed him, touching his hair, and laughed. "Joking, dude. But . . . if you wanna switch . . . see how it goes. That's cool."

He didn't. Not right then. He hummed in pleasure and drew Stiles closer. Followed his shoulder to the curve of his neck and rested there, breathing him in. Even though the boy's heart beat faster, Derek lingered. Desire colored his scent now, making it new, and he couldn't get enough. The hues were different, better, beautiful. He drew his nose along Stiles's neck, filling his lungs and letting out hot breaths. Stiles made small, delicious sounds. And he couldn't resist.

Derek pressed a kiss just under his jaw, light. The next lower, harder. He licked his lips to make it wet and tasted the skin beneath him.

Stiles gasped, and opened himself to it. His body moved in a wave, ending with hands squeezing on Derek's thighs.

Salt and soap. _Stiles_. Derek laved. Tongue. Then lips. Blunt teeth.

Slow.

Intent.

He pressed his hands up under that t-shirt Stiles loved so much and stroked over warm, smooth muscle. Surprisingly strong.

Stiles groaned, panting, and writhed in place, wanting more, everywhere.

Derek made it one motion, hands pressing up, circling, mouth pressing down. His palm grazed a nipple, and Stiles jerked, breath stuttering. _"Fuck . . ."_ But he hadn't found the spot. His beard rubbing against sensitive flesh when he smiled. Stiles, hissed and pressed back harder, exposing his neck more. His hands squeezed, squeezed.

Derek bit. Licked. Searching for the point of precious nerves.

 _Not quite._ Gasping. _Not quite._ He sucked lightly.

Stiles all but collapsed in on himself. _There_.

He beat his tongue against the pulse. Stiles arched under his hands, moaning, and gripped his hair. His heart hammered, and Derek could already feel him reaching, stretching after greater pleasure.

They both shook, and Derek slowed. Licks to light kisses. He gathered his partner hard against him and breathed. Breathed . . . slower . . .

"You're stopping?" Stiles asked, sounding wrecked. "Oh my God," he said between breaths. "You're a tease." He found the hand Derek had pressed hard against his chest and covered it with his own anyway.

This wasn't what he had planned. Wasn't anything like what he _would_ have planned. Derek moved so their cheeks pressed together and let instinct carry through with an affectionate nuzzle that any other time would leave him shamefaced. It made Stiles laugh a little. "Your beard is insane." He could work with that, and rubbed their cheeks together a little extra just to prove it. "Oh my God, I am doomed," Stiles groaned.

Derek held him a little tighter and then slipped his arms out from the under the shirt.

Their heart rates slowed. Breathing evened. Stiles resettled himself a few times and hooked a hand around the back of one of Derek's knees. Questions bounced loudly around inside of him, and he was struggling to keep them in. Or maybe to choose which one to set free. He was quiet a long time.

"You didn't stop because you're a tease," he said in a voice low and controlled.

Derek heaved a sigh. "No."

"I'm old enough to know what I want."

Derek worked his mouth for a second, scoring his lips with his teeth. "It's not really about that," he replied at last, hoarse with the things he didn't want to say. Kate’s sweet, bloodied words echoed; made his hands shake.

"Then what—"

"I can't"—he pressed his face into Stiles's hair—"please." _I would tell you if I could._

Stiles drew an unsteady breath. "We might . . . not exactly be getting a second chance."

He whispered, "I know," in reply and tried to formulate how to explain the silences he couldn't yet break. There are fears that live in the body and have no use for futures or reason.

Stiles puffed out a breath of frustration, but seemed to let it go. He busied himself playing with the fabric of Derek’s jeans instead.

"Are we bait?" Stiles asked suddenly.

Derek blinked, for all the good it would do, and tried to catch up to sharp shift.

"I-I don't know. Maybe? Scott's got to be worth more to them than I am."

Stiles groaned unhappily and dropped his head back against Derek's shoulder. "He's gonna do something really stupid."

A dark expression crossed Derek's face—one he was happy Stiles couldn't see. "Yeah," he said lowly. "Probably."

 

**

 

Before they even got to the apartment, Scott could tell. A frown settled on his face, and he gave Isaac a look, seeking confirmation. The pinch around his eyes and sour expression said all there was to say, really.

The Sheriff answered when they knocked, and Scott brushed past him, a spark burning in his chest.

"What's _he_ doing here?" he demanded, looking straight at Lydia.

She glanced up from the arrangement of fire bomb bottles on the dining room table, unimpressed with the heat in Scott's voice. Her eyes swiveled to Peter, at her right, then back to Scott. She shrugged. "He came to give us information."

"About what."

"Baking tips," Peter replied. "What do you think?"

It fanned the spark in Scott's chest, and his eyes flashed red as he huffed.

Sheriff Stilinski dropped a hand onto his shoulder. Somehow his presence, his control, was enough that Scott could quash the wild thing inside. Peter had never paid for the things he'd done. And he would never be an ally. But maybe enemy of my enemy was enough. Scott's eyes faded to their normal deep brown, and the Sheriff stepped away to lean against the back of the couch instead, watching.

"Lydia?" Scott asked carefully, because she hadn't answered his question.

"It's about the agora. Specifically about the door. He says it's alive, and that Allison should try to put it to sleep once they're inside so that they can't get locked in. It's"—she cut a sideways glance and then said reluctantly—"probably a good idea."

Peter failed at not looking smug, but at least didn't say anything. He gave Lydia a long, enigmatic look that made Aiden go very still, and then slipped around the furniture from the dining room into the living room, taking his laptop with him. Scott stared at him until he looked up.

"What?" He motioned at the screen innocently. "I'm behind on _The Vampire Diaries_."

Scott made a face and then turned sharply when he felt Isaac leaning in close.

"It's surprisingly good," Isaac admitted at a whisper, although nearly everyone else in the room could hear him anyway.

The admission made Scott smile, which had probably been the point, and he brought his attention to the small arsenal Lydia had produced. He moved closer to stand opposite her at the table and gave Ethan a quick nod of greeting.

"Do you believe him, about the door?" he asked Lydia.

Her gaze slid to Aiden, who said, "I couldn't detect a lie," and then shrugged. All lie detectors worked the same way; their flaw was that they relied on the conscience of the person speaking and their willingness to believe their own falsehood. Stiles had spent a few days practicing it once before he realized that his father probably wasn't going to strap him into one every time he asked him a question.

"Seems plausible," Lydia said. "At least worth letting Allison know."

Scott pulled out his phone and sent her a text. While he was typing, Isaac and John gathered around the dining room table as well.

"So these are . . ." Isaac started motioning at the bottles.

"Molotovs," Lydia said. "I think—" She stopped and her expression grew distant for a second before she marshaled herself back. "I _know_ that fire can hurt them." She stared hard at the little bottles in a way that made Scott desperate to ask how she knew. "There might be other ways. It's about the bandages, really. Destroy those and you can kill it. Fire's just . . ." Her gaze drifted vaguely toward the living room where Peter sat. "Easy."

Isaac picked up one of the bottles and peered at the clear liquid inside. "What bandages?" he asked, and looked around the table.

Lydia gave them a summary of everything she'd found while they'd been out. She, Aiden, and Sheriff Stilinski exchanged uncomfortable looks when it came to the epiphany about fire, but Scott didn't press any of them on it.

When the explanation was done, Isaac pointed out that they were still left with one major problem.

"The glamor." Scott grimaced.

Ethan spoke up for the first time. "What about mistletoe?"

Scott retrieved his backpack from the floor by the couch and pulled out the bag of powdered mistletoe that Deaton had given him. He dropped it on the table next to the rest of their weapons.

"We have some, but . . . no idea if it will do anything. My boss said it's a different kind of magic. Worth a shot, I guess, but if it doesn't work . . ."

Aiden scowled. "We're going to get ourselves killed. I _told_ you this was a terrible idea. We should be getting as far away from here as we can!"

The wild thing in Scott's chest raked its claws across his ribs. Anger exploded through him white and unyielding. "And _I_ said, we're NOT leaving them!" He found himself in Aiden's face, fangs flashing. Power flowed through him, bringing hot energy to his limbs, and he breathed like bellows. Aiden retreated a step on instinct.

"Scott!" John's voice, scolding.

 _"What!"_ He wheeled, snarling. How dare he, how _dare_ he interrupt. Scott felt the challenge in his bones, and yes, yes, he wanted to fight. Tear something apart, make something suffer. A growl rumbled out of him.

Incongruously, the Sheriff's expression softened. "This isn't like you," he said.

"Maybe it is now!" Scott shot back.

A dramatic sigh from Peter in the living room. "Do you mind? I can't hear my show."

"Shut up!" Scott and the Sheriff shouted at once.

And all of a sudden, Scott couldn't stand seeing him there, in Allison's house, _breathing._ He started forward, but Isaac darted into his path and gripped his shoulders. "Scott!" His blue eyes were wide and pleading, and it was enough to give Scott pause. _"Please,"_ Isaac hissed. "Save it for them."

Scott glared at Peter a second more and then eased up. The rage slowly coiled back down into his stomach, and when his eyes changed back, Isaac let him go. Emptiness sunk heavy into his body as the adrenaline drained away, and he gave Stiles's dad an apologetic look. The Sheriff looked concerned more than anything, and that landed like a kick. Scott turned back to the table and everyone watching him and couldn't quite meet their eyes.

"It's the full moon," Peter offered absently, as though anyone cared for his opinion. Scott tried not to react.

Ethan sighed and muttered, "He's probably right. First full moon after becoming an alpha is . . . difficult."

"I'm fine."

No one bothered to try to correct him.

"And we have bigger problems."

John paced over and stood next to Scott, his stress like a gravity well around him. "Like how you hit something you can't even see."

 

**

 

Allison led, even though she wasn't quite sure what they were looking for. Her father had been doing that a lot lately, letting her lead. No, _trusting_ her to lead. That was different.

Westvale stretched from the East Hills River to Drury St. and kept losing some of itself to the Stillmont District a little more each year. As they crossed into the borders of Westvale, a little more darkness seeped in. Allison felt it closing like a fist and stopped her advance to see why. She turned back and peered at the In-N-Out, still visible across the street, its signs throwing off a cheerful colored glow. And then she checked the buildings on either side of her. Brick facade and black metal fire escapes. A corner store was already closing up shop, and she watched as the cheap lighted sign advertising that day's lottery jackpots went out. The store sign itself was just a painted plank: Lee Fruit and Veg. She gazed up the length of the sidewalk and noted that nearly all the streetlights were dark. Those that weren't flickered.

"Okay?" her father said at her side.

She considered the question. "Yeah, it just feels . . ."

"It's an old part of town," he supplied. "Doesn't draw much business. Rent is cheap."

Allison nodded. No one cared to fix the lights in a part of town like that. She started walking, heading for Conejo as Lydia had instructed. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, and she slipped it out to read a text from Scott. Frowning, she slowed and glanced over her shoulder.

"They're saying the door to the market is . . . alive?"

His face was stone. "I'd believe it."

"Scott says we should try to put it to sleep if we can, so that they can't lock us in."

Chris arched an eyebrow at that. "Clever. And with everything they have for sale, I'm sure we can find something."

Allison nodded and sent a text back confirming that part of the plan. She slid her phone away and kept moving. When they found Conejo, they took a left, heading deeper into Westvale. Allison nearly tripped on a heaved piece of sidewalk before she realized that all the concrete here was cracked and busted. Small pieces of crumbled stone crunched beneath her boots, and she shifted her gait to slink across the ground like a dancer or a proper thief. The moon wasn't high enough yet to cast much usable light, so they explored in the shadows.

They took opposite sides of the street but moved as a unit, flowing forward and checking doors as they came to them. Allison kept her bow slung on her back but slipped a knife out of a holster. Her father kept a gun out but low by his side.

No one shared the empty street. Aside from the one shop owner closing up just as they'd arrived, they hadn't seen or heard anyone. Allison hadn't known it was possible to be in the depths of an urban zone and so far from signs of life. They could still hear cars in the distance; that was something. Mostly she heard her own breathing.

They came to the end of the block and pressed close to the sides of the buildings. From their vantage points, they could each see what lay around the other's corner. Allison bumped her fist against her opposite shoulder to signal to her father that all was clear. He returned the gesture, and Allison paused to consider their options. Split up and cover more ground? As far as they knew, the hekaloi had nothing against hunters, so they should be in relatively little danger. Pick a direction and travel together? Certainly safer. And one of them might pick up on something that the other didn't.

But they were on the clock.

Allison bit her lower lip and then signaled to her father to go straight while she went left. He hesitated for a second, but then nodded and stalked across the open street. Allison edged around the corner and gripped her knife hard by her hip. She gave every door she passed a touch and a quick examination. At the end of the block, she turned right to explore in parallel with her father.

“Trust your senses,” he had said. A vague roadmap if there ever was one.

The streets made her feel exposed, and she darted across them to the safety of the next block of buildings as quickly as she could.

Just as she crossed onto Flores, she felt something race across her skin, like she’d passed through a barrier of pine needles and ice. She gasped through her nose and stopped instantly, turning in a slow circle.

Her pulse quickened.

Bare streets. Empty sidewalks.

But her heart raced.

And she should trust her senses.

She exhaled, and her breath formed a small cloud before dissipating. It hadn’t been that cold a second ago. The small hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and something unfurled inside, dark and liquid. It touched her pelvis and her throat, connecting and pulling tight. She should have been afraid; her heart thudded with excitement instead, and she started down the sidewalk with her knife up and ready.

Somehow, Westvale grew more quiet. Deathly still. Allison hadn’t seen a single living thing since the edge of the neighborhood, but the further she went, the more sure she got that something dark shushed the world. The sound of her boots on the pavement grew muffled; her own breathing somehow louder in her ears.

She glanced around, and the moon had gotten high enough to spill silver light down the streets and building faces. But something about it . . .

Allison frowned but couldn’t quite place what was wrong. Something was wrong.

This side of the block served as the back of the building, and the façade opened into a small parking lot with a loading dock. That, like the streets, was empty. Allison scanned for doors and marked five targets. When she started toward them on fleet feet, a thrill bristled through her body. She spun the ring dagger around once just to feel the weight of it shift in her hand. The black cord through her center pulled tighter, and she checked over her shoulder as she went. Something flickered at the corner of her vision, and she spun, weapon at the ready, heart pounding.

Nothing. The moonlight reflected off a window pane, and the world could have been a tomb.

Allison clenched her fists and hurried to the closest door. She touched its surface with a gloved hand and glanced at the door knob. It looked ordinary. More importantly, it felt harmless. She moved on.

Each step made her more aware of her surroundings: the rock under her foot, the gliding clouds, the shape her breath made when it curled out of her. She touched the second door, tensing for the second before her fingertips made contact, and then sighed.

The third door stood at the center of the block, cloaked in a blade of shadow.

Allison paused and frowned at it, then looked up at the full moon, clearly visible from where she stood. The door should have been . . . Her eyes flashed, and a thin smile crossed her lips. Illuminated.

 _Yes_.

The cord holding her taut pulsed, sending liquid fire down her arms and into her thighs. She moved with a cat’s grace and concentrated on the hot feeling inside that intensified the closer she got. Her father had said it would feel like fear.

It felt like power.

Allison stepped up to the door and should have sunk into that impossible shadow, but its darkness didn’t touch her. The angles against the wall implied an awning that didn’t exist. She pulled out her phone and turned on the flashlight.

The light simply . . . vanished. She waved it over the surface of the door a few times and then tried on her hand just to be sure. The beams never made it as far as the surface of the door.

And then the knob.

Only it wasn’t a knob. The handle was curved, like a jug handle. But instead of a tab to press to operate the lock, there was a small pan with—Allison leaned in close trying to get a better look—small, sharp teeth. She clenched her jaw and stood up, placing her knife back in the holster on her hip. It was the right place. It had to be the right place. She reached her right hand out to touch the surface of the door. The fingers the archer's glove left exposed made contact, and Allison snatched her hand back before fully processing what she felt. She swallowed and tried again.

It was warm. The first time she thought it had been ice cold, but that was expectation and confused signals.

Warm. Yet it made her bones feel cold with terror, and the black cord inside pulsed unexpectedly, made her blood rush with pleasure.

She pulled her hand back and breathed through the sensation, unsure where it had come from or what it was supposed to mean. Her hand shook a little, and she told herself it was the suddenly wintry air as she reached for her walkie-talkie.

"Dad, I found it."

"Where are you?"

"One block east, five south from where we split up."

"Got it. I'm coming to you."

Allison put distance between herself and the door and tried to push down the liquid feeling in her body—the same feeling she used to get when Scott's hands skimmed up her back, when he kissed her neck, her breastbone. She clenched her fists and glared, as if she could dare whatever dark power lay within the door to do it again.

"Allison?" Her father's voice from too far away, muffled by whatever powers the agora drew around itself.

She looked over and watched him jog to her side, great clouds of frozen breath billowing up and away, so silent. They approached the door together. Allison held out her hand, and he placed the vial of blood carefully in her palm. She worked off the cap with a bit of effort and glanced at her father to be sure he was ready—to give him the chance to assure her that she was ready, too.

Danny's blood disappeared into the small metal mouth. Maybe it was watching too much _Harry Potter_ , but she expected the mouth to . . . _do_ something. Close its lips. Gnash its teeth. Gasp to sudden life and speak. _Something_.

Nothing happened.

Allison looked at her father, worried that somehow she'd gotten it wrong, that somehow a door handle with teeth and a door that eluded light _wasn't_ a black market after all, which had to be absurd. He put a hand on her shoulder and motioned for her to keep watching.

It didn't come to life, not like her imagination thought it might, but the pan with the teeth did suddenly snap up, refusing further payment if any were offered.

And then the door groaned—an organic, living sound that sent goosebumps racing down Allison's arms. She found herself a step back, mouth agape, before she got control of herself. Chris reached for the door handle, something hard and determined in his eyes, and he pulled the door open like moving a mountain. The smell of earth and spice rolled out into the chilled lot, followed by sharp, intoxicating herbs, fresh blood, and rot. Allison forced her hands to remain at her sides, to keep from recoiling, squared her shoulders, and strode inside, letting her father shut the door behind them. 


	7. Chapter 7

They walked into a world from another era.

What should have been hard flooring beneath their feet was uneven, compacted dirt, and everything looked to be made of wood and fabric. The door closed behind them, and Allison turned to watch. Something moved that she couldn't see, and it creaked like winter branches. She stepped closer. It was difficult to tell in the low light, but the door looked red and streaked. Whatever covered it splashed onto the wall nearby, spreading like an amoeba over the surface. She took out her phone to try the flashlight now that they were inside and gasped at what she saw. Thin rivulets of red and blue spidered through the patches. She leaned in closer, staring, and nearly dropped her phone when she saw some of it move. The blue contracted. Red pulsed.

Arteries and veins.

"Oh my God," she mouthed silently and moved the light over the rest of the door. White bone jutted from knobs of red flesh around the entryway. And as she looked up, a single, lidless eye rotated at her, then her father, then back, shifting around in its small mound of exposed muscle.

Her stomach clenched with the urge to scream, then vomit. She spun around to keep from looking at, and felt embarrassingly thankful when her father wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

She took a moment to swallow down bile and slowly put her phone away. Chris watched her compose herself without saying anything and let her go when she looked ready.

"It's alive," she said quietly, looking straight ahead, further into the market.

Her father nodded. "Looks that way." His voice had more gravel than usual, and Allison realized that he was steeling himself for this place as much as she was.

Allison started forward, one hand resting on the handle of her favorite knife with casual preparation. The agora skotadi smelled like fertile dirt, formaldehyde, and lavender. The shops had a permanence in their construction: wooden walls, windows, some with front doors and porches. But their arrangement had the random flamboyance of a farmer's market, of hopeful shopkeepers eager for the best spot to sell their wares. Allison glanced up, not sure what she expected to see. It wasn't an abyss dotted with glowing orbs that rose and fell on a breeze all their own. Her gaze flicked to the shops, and what had seemed at first like lanterns hung on the posts she now as one of these orbs, suspended by nothing. Their light shone out like the moon's, silver and cool.

The whole place buzzed with a dark power that Allison could feel in that thing around her heart. She felt it as a lump in her throat, a tightness in her stomach, and a pull of arousal. Nothing good happened here. She could almost feel the death in all the stillness, and it made her heart race.

Signs hung over each establishment, but they were written in Greek, lending no particular help in deciding where to start.

Allison glanced at her father, but he shrugged tightly. "It's been a long time." He moved to stand just behind her elbow. "Trust your instincts."

She couldn't be sure how good an idea that would be, given the dangerous emotions flowing through her system. Things hadn't been right since the nemeton, but they hadn't been this _wrong_ either. She pressed her lips into a thin line and started circling to the right, inspecting the sign and storefront. It could have been a bakery, for all the cute country porch and well-lit interior. She couldn't see anyone inside. She couldn't, in fact, see anyone anywhere.

"Should there be more people here?" she asked her father quietly.

"Not if it's only just appeared. And not if no one has sent out word."

Allison cut him a look. "Meaning hunters."

He gave one slow nod in reply and then kept his eye on the next store down the winding street. Allison might have wanted to ask more, like how often hunters frequented this place, what they purchased, and why no one thought it should be stopped, but he was pointedly looking away, and she could take the hint. Maybe later. Maybe when not inside the hornets' nest.

They moved to the next store, and something about it drew Allison's attention. It looked like an old bookstore. No steps to climb to go in, no front porch for lingering travelers. It had a large glass storefront made of many small panes, all of which distorted what lay inside. Through it she could only see silver, gold, and ripples of green. The door had a large metal symbol embedded in it. Not a Greek letter. Not any letter she was familiar with. She stared at it, and the longer she looked the more it felt like cold ooze slid down her spine. She started to taste blood on her tongue and took it as the best and worst kind of sign. Without looking at her father, she reached for the brass knob and went inside.

 

 

If the agora had smelled of lavender and death, the small shop smelled of cloves and blood. Orderly rows of bottles lined three walls of the cramped space. Dozens of large glass jars filled heavy, sturdy tables. Everything looked well dusted, well-kept, and very old. A moment after they stepped inside, a man came out of the back room looking incongruously proper in a vest and shirtsleeves. Dark hair, darker eyes. He looked freshly shaved and a bit too perfectly handsome—the sort of handsome that only manifested on actors and singers, people destined for adoration. He tipped his head in Allison's direction and gave her an evaluating look. Without taking her eyes off him, she lifted her head in reply.

"May I help you?" he said in a sonorous voice, disarmingly warm. Of course a hekalus would have a voice that pinned you to the floor, that made you beg for more. And suddenly she knew just how to play this.

Allison ran her gaze over him, lingering at his eyes, then turned slowly to the array of bottles. "Maybe," she said, and gave the items nearest to her a closer examination.

Some of the bottles held what looked like twigs. She turned a few and read the hand-scrawled labels. Fairy sinew, eich uisge tendon. Chris stood by the door doing his best to act like a thoughtless grunt, while Allison took small steps that brought her further inside. Between shelves, the contents of the bottles abruptly changed from what she supposed were ingredients to actual concoctions. She leaned in close and stared at a clear liquid with red bubbles suspended inside.

The hekalus appeared at her side. "Ahh. Beautiful, yes?"

She turned to look at him and waited for him to go on. He grinned. "Kanima venom with dragon blood," he said. "Leaves the user paralyzed, conscious, sensate, and”—he lifted an eyebrow suggestively—“potent." He smiled around the word, savoring it, and heat filled his gaze.

Oh. _Oh . . ._ That kind of shop.

"Interesting," she said, straightening.

"Expensive," the shopkeeper replied.

Allison arched an eyebrow at him and smiled dangerously. "You don't think I can pay?"

The hekalus looked slightly abashed. "I didn't mean to imply—"

"Yes, you did," Allison cut him off and stepped into his space, studying his face. "Whatever we don't have on hand, we could pay in trade."

"Trade," he repeated the word like he doubted that very much.

She lifted her eyebrows invitingly and stepped back just a bit.

"Miss," he drew a frown together in apology, "we don't work with just anyone."

Allison turned toward one of the glass jars and ran her finger around the rim. She had one card to play. "Hmm. I guess she was wrong," she said somewhat to herself, loud enough for the hekalus to hear. Then she looked over at him, her expression suddenly cold. "How disappointing."

The hekalus tipped his head and narrowed his eyes. "Guess who was wrong?"

"I came here on a recommendation," Allison said dismissively and shrugged. "It's nothing."

She turned to leave, but the shopkeeper stepped into her path. "Please. Indulge me, Miss . . ."

"Argent," she said, and looked into his eyes, beautiful and dark. The black cord whipped tight, and Allison had to fight against gasping.

The hekalus breathed her name and took a step back to get a better look at her. "Do you . . . know a Kate Argent?" he asked.

A slow smile spread on Allison's lips. "My aunt," she replied moving closer to him, touching a few of the glass jars.

"Ahh." Something dangerous and appreciate lit in his eyes. Glee danced across his features.

Allison stopped just short of pressing herself against him. "She taught me everything I know," she whispered, watching him watch her lips, and then turned away to examine a bottle with a silver liquid inside.

"You aunt is a very . . . special woman," the hekalus said. Allison made a sound of agreement. "With very particular tastes." He was fishing. Allison latched onto the bait.

"Do you have anything . . . fresh?" she asked, and set the bottle of silver liquid down.

The hekalus glanced around the small shop. "I'm not sure I know what you—" He stopped when Allison's hand touched his bicep and started again taking an entirely different tack. "You . . . share her proclivities?"

She brought her lips close to his ear. "Like I said . . . _everything_ I know." Images of Derek chained to the dungeon wall flashed through her mind. And of Kate, watching him, smiling, flushing when he wrenched in pain. She'd enjoyed it in a way Allison hadn't fully realized.

Another thrill shot through her body when the hekalus put his hand on her forearm. He pulled back enough to look her in the eyes. "We do have a recent acquisition," he admitted.

Allison lifted her eyebrows encouragingly.

"But I would have to talk to Zosimus before I could—"

"Of course," Allison said and drew her finger lightly down his cheek. His eyes flashed and darkened, and Allison drew back.

"If you'd like me to ask him now . . ."

She smiled slowly. "We have a little more shopping to do. And then we can stop back?"

The hekalus smoothed down the front of his vest. "That would be excellent, miss."

Allison tipped her head and turned to her father. He nodded and opened the door, still playing the obedient grunt. When the door shut securely behind them, Allison felt her father step up close.

"How'd you know that would work?" he said lowly.

She paused to glance over her shoulder. "You didn't see her. When she tortured him. And she knew just how—” She frowned a little. “It wasn’t the first time. And—" And how to tell her own father that part of her kept telling her that she'd like it too. Having that power, that control.

"And?"

Allison blinked and shrugged. "You said follow my instincts. So I did." She turned toward her father's scowling face and waited for him to say something. To question her choice of tactics or too clear understanding of her aunt's desires. He sighed through his nose and looked worried, but that was all. She wasn't his little girl anymore. Couldn't be. But she trusted that he was still standing guard over the line that Kate wasn’t able to come back from.

They moved from shop to shop until Allison found someone selling non-lethal potions with varying effects. A small blonde hekalus in a tank top and yoga pants sold her a bottle and dropper of sleep serum, just as good for inducing astral projection states as it was disabling a werewolf. Allison wondered what the liquid was made of out—or who—but she pushed it to the back of her mind to focus on the task at hand. Whatever compunction she might feel over actually _doing business_ with these things, she had family to save, and maybe the chance to take a few of these murderers down alongside.

They paid in wolfsbane and US dollars. Allison thought it strange that ancient magicians would care about American currency, but maybe, like hunters, they too had been keeping up with the times and did more with their days than just slaughter people's friends.

"You ready?" Chris asked.

It was a stupidly simple plan. Fake a fight that had him dragging her to the door, use the opportunity to unleash the serum, and then let Allison prevail. She hardly needed practice to call up that sort of anger.

She nodded back at him, a barely perceptible gesture, and then started back toward the sex shop.

"I'm not letting you do this!" Chris shouted, and darted forward, snatching her wrist in his hand.

Allison spun and let all her resentment gather in her voice. "Let go of me!"

"Not this! Anything but this. I will not let _my_ daughter—" He started to pull her up the main causeway back toward the door.

" _Let_ me? It's not your decision!" She hauled back on her arm, forcing him to put his weight into moving them.

"My child. My decision!"

"I'm an adult!"

"No!" Chris rounded on her and shoved a finger in her face. "You're a teenager! You have no idea what you're getting yourself into." He resumed his march toward the door.

"And you have no idea what I've already done!" Allison cried, angry tears gathering in her eyes. A few hekaloi popped their heads out of their shops to witness their shouting match.

Her father stopped and turned to look at her, sorrow and anger warring on his face. He didn't know how much they were acting. She didn't either.

"I'm getting you out of here," he said.

Allison wrenched her arm out of his grip. "I make my own decisions."

He lunged and grabbed the other wrist. "Not today."

And in a few more steps they were there, under the watch of the unblinking eye. Allison threw her back against the door, holding is closed. She worked the bottle and dropper out of her pocket and checked for the inside of the door handle, which was covered in the sacrificial blood. Once she had its location, she raised her eyes to her father's and kept them there.

"I thought Argents raised their women to lead," she said.

His face hardened. "We do." He shifted his body to block view of the door handle from any of the prying eyes.

"Doubting you did a good job?" Allison asked, and squeezed a full dropper of serum onto the same path the blood would have taken. If Peter’s information had been correct, it would flow down to the heart of the door. The yoga hekalus had claimed the serum was fast-acting, fast enough to be of use to a hunter in grave danger.

Chris pressed his eyes shut and dropped his head to his chest for a second. They weren't, Allison felt sure, acting anymore.

"No," her father's voice came out soft.

She drew herself up and recapped the bottle, staring at him. "Then you have to trust me."

He lifted his eyes to look at her, locking gazes for a moment before saying anything. "You . . . in there—" Pain and worry choked off his words.

Allison's lips pressed into a hard line. "You. Have to. Trust. Me." She stared him down, and he dropped his head back to look up as though seeking divine guidance.

He was checking on the gatekeeping eye.

He took a few long, steady breaths and flicked his gaze down to Allison without moving his head. When he smiled with just his eyes, she knew it had worked. A quick glance of her own told her that the eye was no longer rolling like it had been when they'd first entered.

Chris sighed heavily and took a step back. "I don't like it," he said, his tone going to gravel.

Allison pushed her way around him. "I know," she whispered, without stopping, and headed straight for the shop.

 

**

 

The urge to hit something had been steadily growing. As much as he didn't want it to, the tension started to bleed over into the others, and soon the Argents' apartment was a silent, seething cage. Peter had even given up watching his show because he found himself focusing on Scott's pacing and his unusually strong desire toward violence. The more he kept it under wraps, the worst it got, until Isaac finally suggested he go into the cellar and beat on a punching bag for a while. He even offered to help.

Scott swung with a human fist and felt his whole body jolt with the impact. Energy dissipated out of him through the strike, and a small bit of his anger fled with it. Isaac grunted and leaned more of his weight against the bag, preparing for the next blow. Scott tried the other arm. His punch connected with another satisfying thud.

He hit again.

And again.

Each time his muscles sang with strength, joyous at being used, and he let loose a little more.

For a few minutes, he gave up trying to control the fury and let it guide his hands. The tight piano wire of tension holding him together unwound enough that he could voice his rage, and he roared with a human voice as his fists hit, hit, hit.

The exertion left him sweating and panting, and he would have stayed in the blissed out state of body awareness if Isaac hadn't called out to him, maybe a few times, with words that eventually resolved into, "Your phone."

Scott dropped his arms and bent over to rest his hands on his knees. "What?"

Isaac leaned out from behind the punching bag. "Are you gonna answer it?"

He jerked when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket and quickly dug it out with slippery, shaking fingers.

"Hello?"

"Scott." Dr. Deaton's voice. "That research I said I'd do? I think I have what you need. Send me the address and I'll be right over."

All the air rushed from Scott's lungs in a repetition of _thank you_ s, and he hung up so he could send the text.

Isaac peered at him with a politely curious look that suggested he hadn’t overheard the whole conversation, and Scott managed to give him a tired smile. "My boss. He's coming over with something that can help."

"Good," Isaac replied with a grin, "because we were pretty much out of ideas."

Scott slipped his phone back in his pocket and started for the stairs. He motioned for Isaac to go ahead of him. "Hey, Isaac?" Scott called lightly as they ascended.

Isaac glanced back over his shoulder.

Scott gave him his most genuine, embarrassed-by-how-much-he-meant-it smile. "Thanks."

All eyes turned their way as they came into the dining room, and Scott announced that Deaton was coming over with . . . something, but he had no idea what.

Peter dropped his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. "Are your plans always this thorough?" No one replied, but a second later he jumped in surprise when something hit him in the chest and picked up a lemon from his lap. He cast a withering glare around the room, but everyone's blank expressions and steady heartbeats gave him nothing to work with. He set the lemon aside with a sarcastic twist of his lips and went back to pretending not to care.

Isaac dropped himself onto the love seat and burned the side of Scott's face with a stare until Scott relented and came to sit next to him. Aiden ground his teeth and alternated between shaking his head at his brother and distracting himself with Lydia. The Sheriff got a call from the station but told his new deputy to take point on the domestic disturbance, assuring him that experience was the best teacher. He wandered back into the dining room and blew out a breath.

"How long—"

Scott perked and popped up from his seat. "He's here." He vibrated with anxiety and had to hold himself in place to keep from whipping open the door and waiting like a creep while his boss walked down the hallway from the elevator. He stood on the other side of the door and waited for the first knock before opening it.

Dr. Deaton gave him a small perfunctory nod before coming in. The whole room stood to greet him, though no one said a word, too grim and hopeless to have much of anything to say. Scott followed him in and stood at his side, barely breathing.

"What did you find?" Scott asked.

Deaton heaved a sigh. "I need you to understand, this isn't my area of expertise."

The Sheriff made a small sarcastic sound, and Deaton graced him with an aborted, guilty smile and then shifted his gaze back to Scott. "As I said before, blood magic is nothing like the druidic magic that I'm familiar with. I contacted an . . . associate for some advice."

"Associate?"

He considered his answer for a moment. "A muti practitioner. Muti . . . deals with viscera, usually zoological, but not always. It isn't the same as heka, but the closest I could do on short notice."

Deaton took out a small bottle and studied it in his hand.

"What's that?" Lydia asked, lifting her heels to peer over.

Deaton pressed his lips together for a second and then answered. "Eyedrops. Whoever uses this"—he held the bottle up between his thumb and forefinger—"should be able to see magical energies."

"Should be?" Scott squeaked.

Deaton gave him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry Scott. It's the best I can do."

Lydia drew an audible breath. "You think it'll reveal the medallions," she breathed.

Deaton nodded slowly. "More specifically the magical energy powering the medallion, but yes, that's the idea."

"So we could see it," the Sheriff said.

"Someone could," Deaton corrected. "There's only enough for one user. And"—he stressed—"there are side effects."

Scott straightened his spine. "Like what?"

"Temporary blindness."

Scott's eyes widened. "What?"

"Give it to me." The Sheriff stepped forward and held out his hand.

"What?" Scott said again, this time at Stiles's dad. "No!"

"Scott," John said sharply, "he's my son."

"You'll be blind!"

 _"He's my son."_ He moved his fingers impatiently, gesturing for the bottle. "Scott, I'd do it if it were permanent."

Deaton handed over the bottle with a solemn nod. "Seeing the target is only half the equation. You'll have to be able to hit it, too."

John smirked. "One tour as a Gulf War sniper. If I can see it, I can hit it."

Again that slow, solemn nod. "Unfortunately, bullets won't do you much good." Deaton reached into his pocket and drew out a small tin. "But I think I have something that will."

He handed the box to John. The Sheriff opened it and frowned down at the powder inside.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Smells like sawdust," Scott said, leaning to peer into the box.

Dr. Deaton smirked. "That's cause it is. Specifically fir dust." He let a silence fall, and the Sheriff lifted his eyebrows at him.

"I'm . . . sorry. I still don't follow. How do I shoot dust?"

"You don't," Lydia said, letting her crossed arms fall open. "You shoot something coated with it. Like an arrow."

"An _arrow_?" John replied incredulously. "I can't shoot a bow."

"What about a crossbow?" Isaac asked, drawing the Sheriff's attention. "That's . . . like a rifle. Or the little ones, like pistols."

John shrugged slowly at him. "Never used one. I'd have to try."

"The Argents have a whole arsenal," Scott said.

"And a shooting range." Isaac stepped toward John. "I can show you."

 

**

 

John followed Isaac down the stairs into the basement. The boy's shoulders tensed, and he touched the wall on the way down, like he needed to balance. The Sheriff waited, watching, as Isaac punched a few numbers on a keypad next to a dull metal door. He wondered why a werewolf would have the combination to a hunter's gun room and then wondered if Scott had it also. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Chris to find out his daughter ran with wolves—with the things they hunted. Except his son had admitted that once to hanging out with a murder suspect who it turned out was a great cook, so maybe that was close.

Isaac flicked on a switch in the room and both walls lit up revealing rows of neatly hung weapons. The Sheriff couldn't keep from whistling. He knew Chris was an arms dealer. But there was still some space between knowing and _knowing_.

"I don't really know the models or anything," Isaac said. "So I'm not sure what's better."

John shrugged as he turned in a slow circle. "I'm not sure I'd know the difference."

Isaac lifted a full-size crossbow off the wall and handed it to him. It didn't weigh as much as a rifle, but the bow made it wide and cumbersome. He put it to his shoulder and sighted at the wall. He tried to imagine having to run or fight with something like this in his hands.

"You're making a face," Isaac told him.

He glanced at him. "Am I? What kind of face?"

The boy smirked. "The kind that says this sucks."

John snorted in amusement and lowered the weapon. Isaac held out one of the pistol-sized kind instead, and they switched. Now this . . . this felt balanced. A good weight in the grip, but less than his service weapon. It felt like an extension of his body, and that was a very good sign. As he sighted toward the wall again, Isaac let out a small laugh and opened up a drawer. When John glanced over at him, he rattled a handful of bolts in his direction.

"Ready to try?"

Isaac led him back out of the gun room and to another door off the cellar. This one didn't have a lock, but it was solid and well-sealed. So well-sealed that it gasped like an air lock when Isaac opened it and moved through.

The firing range.

John watched him closely as he pulled a target up, replaced it, and sent it back down the range, and he could see the boy he'd seen that day in the graveyard. He could see it in the way he held his shoulders, slightly defensive, or counseled his movements into something precise and cautious. He'd known. God, he'd _known_ —the moment he saw the black eye he'd known, and then the body language between them, all wrong.

"All set," Isaac said quietly and stepped away from the bench.

John started to set up for a test fire, but the crossbow wavered slightly in his hand, and he stopped.

"Sheriff?" Isaac asked after a second.

It came on him suddenly, a red wall of guilt that it took a moment to swallow down. He'd thought about it since. Knew that Jackson had known and hadn't cared.

No one had cared.

"I'm so sorry," he said with a rough voice, and found the strength to look Isaac in the eye.

The boy frowned, and his whole body contracted. His eyes flicked to the crossbow in John's hand and back before widening. He inched back, perhaps not even knowing that he'd done it.

Fear. All fear.

John tracked the gaze and frowned in reply before—

 _Oh ._ . .

He schooled his expression and very carefully set the loaded crossbow on the bench aimed down range.

The tension in Isaac's stance melted and he frowned, now out of confusion. "Wh-What do you mean?"

The Sheriff drew a deep breath and found his gaze slowly sliding toward the floor. "I mean . . . It's my job to protect the people in this town. And I . . ." He forced himself to look up, shaking his head. "I failed . . . I failed _you_. We all did. The whole—the whole system. But—" He stopped because he didn't know how to put it into words, but the pressure of what he wanted to say built anyway and it made his voice warble when he tried to power through. "I should have kept you safe. You deserved that much, and I'm just—I'm sorry. Even though it doesn't change anything, I'm sorry."

Isaac stared at him, barely breathing, and his eyes went glassy with tears. "You didn't know," he said brokenly.

"Exactly. I didn't know. Not until that day. But I should have, and I'm sorry."

Isaac sucked a breath and looked away, wiping the end of his sleeve across his cheek.

"You know," John cleared his throat and talked at the ground. "Scott was over our house a lot when he was little. And, um . . . After his dad left, he came over a little bit more. Practically had his own room. And, uh . . . I always tried to let him know that if he ever needed anything. You know? If he didn't think he could go to his mom, or, hell, I don't know, just, if he ever needed anything, I was there." He shrugged. "I don't know if it helped—"

"I'm sure it did." Isaac's whisper brought John's ramble to a halt, and for a moment they just looked at one another.

The ache in John's chest eased when Isaac nodded a little and cracked a smile. He grinned back at him, just a small lift at the corner of his mouth. "I hope so."

Isaac wiped at his other cheek with his sleeve, and John turned away to give him some privacy. He cleared his throat again, then picked the crossbow up off the bench.

"Think you'll hit anything?" Isaac asked.

The Sheriff lifted his shoulders. "Only one way to know."

He settled himself and started through the routine he'd developed back in training to slow his heartbeat and sharpen his focus. Isaac made an impressed sound, and John let the first bolt fly.

 

 

The others had been busy. Isaac and Sheriff Stilinski returned to the dining room to find Ethan and Aiden each with a purse slung across their chests, carefully loading the bag with fire bomb bottles. Lydia and Scott wrapped each bottle in a washcloth before handing it over. They all stopped when they noticed Isaac and John watching.

"So?" Scott asked, his eyebrows skittering up.

Isaac smirked at him. "So I wouldn't piss him off." He held up a box of crossbow bolts. Scott waved him over to the dining room table, largely clear of their molotov collection. "Are we sure this is gonna work?" Isaac asked as he set the box down.

Scott gave his boss a long look and then passed the bottle in his hands to Ethan. "I'm sure it's all we've got."

Isaac pressed his lips together was a sarcastic twist. "Comforting."

Deaton crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. "If I had more time, I could be more sure. Check with some additional sources, run some tests." He shrugged helplessly.

The twins removed the purses Lydia had liberated from Allison's closet and put on new ones, settling the bottles so they'd be stable and within easy reach when someone was actually carrying the bag. They had four ammunition sacks by the time the table was cleared.

Isaac disappeared into the kitchen and came back with some paper plates and a bottle of Elmer's glue. They set up a small assembly line to coat the bolts with fir dust and let them dry. For a while, no one spoke, too absorbed in their work or own thoughts to have much to say. But Scott could feel his boss watching him, pointedly not saying whatever he was thinking of saying. He decided to wait him out and eventually it came.

"Scott." That concerned, calming voice full of warning and misgivings.

Scott glanced up from rolling a gluey bolt tip through the box of dust. "Don't tell me not to try."

"You're something extremely rare."

Scott handed the bolt to Aiden and didn't take another. "We're all extremely rare. They're not making another Stiles, or another Derek."

"I know that. But—"

"Being a true alpha doesn't make me any more valuable!"

Deaton frowned. "It does to them."

"Well, it doesn't to me!" Scott snatched the next bolt out of the Sheriff's hand and plunged it into the sawdust. "We're going. And this is going to work." He didn't look at Aiden; he could feel his grimace and resistance well enough as it was.

Ethan cleared his throat. "Have you thought about what we're going to do when we get there?"

"Actually," the Sheriff spoke up. "I have an idea about that." Attention swiveled in his direction. "But you're probably not going to like it."

Scott grimaced. "There's nothing about any of this I like."

 


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles couldn't take the weird angles making his limbs fall asleep anymore, so he'd gone back to sitting at Derek's side. Derek felt around for him until he found his hand, but he let Stiles be the one to lock their fingers together.

"Derek," Stiles said after a time.

"Yeah?"

"I don't wanna die in here."

The whisper wrapped around Derek's heart and squeezed. "I know."

"I've been thinking of a plan, but I don't think you're gonna like it."

Derek huffed. "Just get it over with."

Stiles sucked in as much air as he could; it sounded like winding up. "Okay. I think when they come for us, because I'm assuming that they _will_ come for us, that A) I should do all the talking and B) you shouldn't wolf out at them or try to kill them as soon as they show up."

"I—what?" Derek turned to stare at the black void in Stiles's direction.

"I'm serious. Harmless puppy."

He blinked in confusion. "Stiles, why would I ever do that? They're going to kill us, and you want me to let them?"

"No. I don't want you to _let_ them. Please do not let with the maiming. What I'm saying is that literally the only thing we can do is try to surprise them. Right? They have every advantage. And the only control we have is over what we do. And they're going to expect the big bad wolf to come out all teeth and claws, and _maybe_ if that's not what happens it'll throw them off. Or they'll let their guard down. I don't know. Something."

Derek grunted unhappily.

"I know, okay? I just—I don't think doing what they expect us to do is going to get us anything. Okay?"

Derek realized by the sudden ache in his jaw that he was grinding his teeth and he focused on stopping.

Stiles shook their hands lightly. "Derek?"

He pushed out an angry breath through his nose. "I don't like it."

"Yeah, I kinda figured. But will you do it? Or _not_ do it, as the case may be?"

It was insane. Honestly. What sort of plan was letting your enemy take you to your slaughter without resistance? But Stiles had a point about expectation and surprise, loath as he was to admit it. It might be the only possible thing they could do given the circumstance. If he attacked right away, they'd incapacitate him immediately, he was sure of that. A few additional seconds of consciousness might be worth something that close to the end.

Stiles shook their joined hands again, more urgently this time. "Derek?"

He sighed, deflating. "Fine."

Stiles tightened his grip a little and then rubbed his thumb across Derek's pulse, trying, Derek thought, to be a comfort.

It may not have made him feel any better about the "plan," but it did start to lull him to sleep. Every time his head fell a little too far forward, he jerked back awake, only to slip slowly under again.

He awoke to a thunderous cracking sound and flew instantly to his feet, hauling Stiles with him.

Light pierced into their endless darkness from a fissure in the wall that slowly widened with the grinding of stone on stone. Stiles let go of his hand, and Derek flinched from the light, trying to cover his eyes from the sudden onslaught and blinking in pain. All he could see was white as he staggered back, but he felt Stiles near him and reached for him. He caught his arm and tugged.

"Get behind me."

Stiles pushed his hand off. "I got this," he whispered, and moved to stand between Derek and the three shadows resolving into people shapes in the doorway. Derek scowled at his back as his heart ratcheted up. It wasn't right. Instinct tore at Derek's insides, insisting that he get between them, do something, keep Stiles safe. He must have made some sort of sound, because Stiles held up a calming hand toward him, urging him to be still. The pain in his eyes lessened, and Derek could face the opening in the wall without flinching. With effort, he kept himself from shifting, though it wavered right on the razor's edge.

"Hey!" Stiles called toward the figures. He dropped his hand and squared his shoulders. "Hekaloi, right? Yes? Okay, good. Lovely dungeon you have here. Very solid construction. Very isolating. Good craftsmanship. But I feel there's something you really should know, which is that _I_ am not a werewolf. 100% grade C human. No special powers, not particularly strong, not particularly handsome. I pretty much . . . pretty much have nothing, you know, of value. Now, if I understand correctly what it is zbieracz like yourselves do, you are looking for rare magical qualities, which means that we have just a really big misunderstanding. So, if you just wanna let me go now, you know, I won't tell your boss, I won't tell anyone. Just forget the whole mistaken kidnapping thing ever happened." He stopped to wait for a reaction, but the three figures remained motionless and cast in shadow. Stiles frowned. "Okay . . . uh, you should also know that I'm the sheriff's son, so the longer you keep me the more people are gonna coming looking, which is probably not the best thing for you, yes? I mean, your shadowy operation of ill-repute vibes are very strong."

Derek swallowed, waiting for the hekaloi to say something. For a moment, part of him thought it might work and a blade of fear and betrayal cut through him—that Stiles would escape and leave him behind.

"Let's go," one of the figures said and motioned with something that flashed like a sword.

Stiles started forward, and one of them grabbed him and shoved him out into the hallway.

"Nice suit," Derek heard him say. "Armani?"

The one in the middle, a man about Derek's size by the silhouette, stepped over the threshold and lifted a sword in his direction. "You, too."

That, Derek felt with a sinking sensation, was not a good development. His fingers burned on the edge of becoming claws, but he held them in and stepped forward. The figures resolved into detail as he got further out of the dark. Two men and one woman, all in dark suits wielding short, brutal-looking swords, which he highly doubted they really needed. The woman took rear guard.

"So, this is way out, right? That's where we're going?" Stiles craned around to look at the hekalus in between himself and Derek, the one that seemed to be the leader.

The hallway stood in stark contrast to the pit. That had been all earth and concrete. This was cement and metal, like the basement of a modern building instead of some medieval hole. The walls were grey and boring, the lights fluorescent. They passed a single staircase with a metal railing, and Stiles turned to point at it.

"Hey, shouldn't we maybe be goi—"

"Move!" the leader, the blond one, shoved Stiles hard and sent him stumbling, almost crashing into the suit in front of him.

Derek's anger spiked, and he clamped his lips down over lengthening fangs.

Stiles shot the hekalus an affronted look and then tried to get a look over the shoulder of the one in front of him. Whatever he saw brought him to a sudden halt and sent his pulse skyward.

"Der-ek!" he called in warning and then turned to try and run.

_Finally!_

In an instant, he shifted, baring fangs and claws, and spun on the hekalus behind him. Derek aimed for her face, but she caught his arm and smashed the hilt of her sword into his ribs. He roared and dropped down to kick out at her legs. Something hit his arm out from under him, knocking him over. He rolled and hopped up.

A cry of rage.

 _Stiles_.

Derek spun to see him being lifted by the third hekalus. He roared and charged at the leader who stood between them. Between one blink and the next, the blond was gone. Something hard hit him on the back of the head, bursting his vision with white light. He crashed into the wall and slid to the floor in a daze. The blond hekalus bore down, and Derek slashed up sloppily with both claws. He felt his hands tear into flesh and recoiled when the blood that came out was black and thick.

"Derek!" Stiles flailed, kicking at the knees of the hekalus that carried him to the room at the end of the hall. He raked with blunt nails, and kicked off the nearest wall. Stiles fought like a badger.

And then Derek saw what Stiles had seen. A metal table with straps through the open doorway.

He snapped his attention back. Aimed a boot at the blond's knee and kicked for all he was worth. The bone snapped audibly. The hekalus merely scowled, but it gave him time to scramble away and get to his feet. He had to get Stiles. He had to get to the stairs.

And in the moment of indecision, the woman appeared suddenly at his side and cracked his temple with her sword.

He fell into darkness.

 

**

 

The sex shop hekalus stood behind his small counter, bent slightly to look down into a shallow bowl. He glanced up at Allison as she entered, smiled a little, and went back to speaking in a hushed language she didn't understand. She came to a stop just opposite him and watched as the surface of the dark liquid in the bowl rippled and gurgled. It made no sound, but the hekalus seemed to understand well enough. He nodded gravely.

"Όpos thelete, Zosimus."

He touched his finger to the liquid, and the surface went still. When he drew it back, Allison could see the distinctive red smear of blood. Something in her quickened at the sight of it, and she watched, transfixed, as he brought his finger to his lips and sucked it clean. He smiled slowly at her, and she felt herself blush.

"Your boss?" Allison asked when she could find her voice. She indicated the bowl with the tilt of her head.

"Yes . . . He says he was just about to begin a procedure, but if you'd like to see the specimen before he starts, he would allow it. The Argents are always honored guests in our halls." He deep voice flowed through her like wine.

"Seems we have quite the reputation."

"And job performance history," the hekalus said, coming around the counter. "Your family has procured many items for us over the centuries." He motioned for the door and bowed slightly so she would go first. "And, we hope, have counted yourselves well compensated."

Allison looked at him over her shoulder. "Well, I'm here, aren't I?"

And to that he just smiled. They walked along the market's path in silence, Allison dropping a half-step back so that the hekalus could lead. "Is your companion coming?" he asked as they turned a corner and the lights above got suddenly dim.

The air felt colder, too, and Allison tensed. "My father?" She laughed a hard, humorless laugh. "No. I don't need him for this. And he's got other procurements to make."

The hekalus hummed and continued on, past darker and smaller shops that smelled more and more like rot. Allison wondered what she'd find if she opened one of the doors. A part of her very much wanted to know and coiled with anticipation at the idea.

They came to a break between shops, and the hekalus started down a black alleyway. She couldn't see anything, but Allison heard a knob turn and blinked at a flood of light that poured through whatever lay beyond.

"I do apologize for that," his smooth voice said into her ear.

Allison touched his face lightly. "Just unexpected."

He made another of those pleased sounds and then led her into an entirely different and substantially newer part of the agora. The shops and trampled dirt facade were just that. A staged play to meet customer expectation. Because what she walked into was a bright gray concrete hallway with industrial lighting and chipped paint. It could have been the basement of any office building.

She followed him down the steps, and they made a right down the hall. There was only one room at the end, and through the glass window she could make out people in suits and white coats moving around. As they got closer, her heart started to hammer, and she had to concentrate to take even, determined steps. As the hekaloi inside shifted out of the way, she could see an exam table, and a face she knew.

The hekalus came to a stop beside the door.

"As you can see, still fresh."

Allison stared in at Derek, bound to a table with metal bands on his ankles and wrists and a leather strap across his forehead. Blood ran down the side of his face, and he didn't look conscious. She held her breath for a second. "He's beautiful," she said as she exhaled, fogging the window a little. It cleared quickly, and she angled herself to get a better look into the room. That could definitely be Stiles's shoe and pantleg.

She turned serious eyes toward the hekalus. "You said you were starting a procedure? But won't that ruin—"

He held up a hand. "The harvest isn't until midnight. This first is . . . noninvasive. I promise your experience will be _everything_ you desire, so long as you leave us enough afterward for our work."

Allison pressed a pleased look onto her face. Left enough? "Excellent. Shall we talk price?" What had Kate done in these rooms? Part of her wondered, but the black cord inside that heated at the sight of Derek's blood and sparked at his helplessness knew the types of things she had done. It understood the arousal and intoxication of power.

She turned from the door with a flush of embarrassment and waited for the hekalus to begin leading her out. On the way up the stairs, she slipped her phone from her pocket and typed Scott the address, hoping that everything was taken care of on their end. That everyone would come. Because she was busting into that room whether they were or not.

 

**

 

He woke into light and the throb of a headache.

Derek tried to move to touch his head and found his arm stuck fast. The clouds in his mind cleared instantly from a rush of fear, and he tried to move anything at all, pulled at both arms and legs, but cold metal cut into his skin. He tried to lift his head, but that, too, was held down. He struggled with sudden panic, jostling the table, but stopped when it got him nowhere. Someone moved in his peripheral vision: a hekalus in a white coat by the smell of lavender and the jangling of bells. Any semblance of control evaporated in the cold fire of his fear, and he shifted without meaning to.

Stiles was here. He could smell him. And his fear. But tied flat to the table as he was, he couldn't see him. And he didn't dare speak, not without knowing why they hadn't both been slaughtered after the attempt in the hallway. The cold fire left Derek trembling in his bones. He curled his fingers as close to a fist as he could and pressed his lips over his fangs hard to try to keep it from showing.

The hekalus shuffling around the room said nothing. Just moved wheeled carts and shifted the positions of metal objects.

_God. Oh God. . ._

They cut things open. _Alive._ Vivisected. If he was lucky, they'd kill him early. He needed to find a way to make them kill him early.

Somewhere to his right, a door opened, and another hekalus swept in. This one came right to his side and leaned into view. He had deep set brown eyes and black hair that was starting to grey.

"A young beta," he said with a heavy accent, looking at Derek but not speaking to him. "Very nice. Full of strong energy." He met Derek's eyes, then.

Derek wanted to snap his teeth toward the man's neck but managed to only sneer instead.

The hekalus laughed lightly. "Do you know? That's what I love about your kind. So _defiant_." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Can I tell you what you're thinking? You're thinking that you won't give me what I want, no matter what it is. That you will deny me."

Derek averted his eyes and stared at the wall, eliciting another laugh.

"Yes, exactly! Exactly. But your problem is that you don't know what it is I want." The hekalus smiled. "So I'm going to help you. Let you in on the secret." He drew close to Derek's ear and whispered loudly. "I want your rage. And your sorrow . . ."

"Leave him alone!" Stiles suddenly bellowed and rattled the whole table he was similarly strapped to.

The hekalus turned from Derek with a look of delighted surprised. "Ah, the human." The man came over and leaned down close enough for Stiles to smell the rot of his breath. "That was very brave." He cocked his head. "What will you do if I don't leave him alone?"

Stiles scowled at him and swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

The hekalus smirked and turned to his compatriot. "Ariston, a knife please."

"Zosimus," Ariston replied. He moved by Derek and handed over a small silver blade.

"Knife?" Stiles said, his voice thin. He strained to get a better look. "What—hey, what are you—hey!"

Zosimus slipped the knife under his jeans at the hip and cut a quick, straight slit all the way down. Stiles gasped, then clamped his mouth shut. He squeezed his eyes closed when the other side got sliced, then grunted, shaking, when Zosimus ripped the fabric away, revealing boxers and pale, trembling legs.

"Ariston, get the shoes," Zosimus said.

Suddenly, the laces instantly loosened—cut—and they took his socks and shoes as well. Stiles tried to curl in on himself to hide his nakedness, but the restraints on his ankles kept him pinned, his legs too far apart not to feel the violation of their stares. He breathed, trying to deny them the satisfaction of a reaction.

"What do you _want_?" Stiles demanded through a clenched jaw.

Zosimus leaned over him. "From you? What I want from you is simple, boy. I want you"—he leaned in closer and dropped his voice to a whisper—"to scream."

Stiles's eyes got impossibly wide and he started pulling at his wrists frantically.

Zosimus disappeared from his view and he almost started screaming right then in panic. But that was what they wanted. And he didn't want to give them anything they might want. Stiles bit down on his lip until he drew blood. And even then, even then, he hadn't been prepared.

 

 

Derek couldn't see. He couldn't see anything. Zosimus had told Stiles he wanted him to scream and a second later, _jesus_ , he did. It tore out of him like he had tried to hold it back and failed. And then he could smell burning flesh. Hear it sizzle. Pop.

Derek's body convulsed in rage. He roared and bucked against his bonds as Stiles screamed, screamed. The whole table shook and jumped. Agony filled his senses. They were burning him. _Burning_ him. And he couldn't, could not again. He strained against the strap holding his head down and screamed himself until his throat was raw with it.

Stiles's wails changed, lessened, cut off altogether as he ran out of air. Then he was gasping and crying with every breath, moaning in pain. The sizzling had stopped. Derek jerked hard against everything, just trying to see.

"Ariston," Zosimus said, and the second hekalus moved to somewhere above Derek's head. The table clacked, and the whole thing tilted, raising him up.

He almost wished they hadn't. The sole of one of Stiles's feet was red and peeling. It made his stomach churn.

Zosimus watched him for a second, then made the same adjustment to the table they had Stiles on, bringing his face into view. He was pale and his whole face wet with tears. He cracked open an eye enough that they could look at one another, and then opened the other to lock gazes. Werewolves had no monopoly on defiance.

"Do you think he can stand another?" Zosimus looked at Derek and grabbed a handful of Stiles's hair. "Hmm?"

Stiles's face crumpled and he shook his head faintly, as much as the restraints would allow.

_Rage and sorrow._

Derek bared his teeth and pulled at his right arm for all he was worth. He concentrated his strength and focus until the metal cut into his skin and started to bleed. Until the strain felt like it would snap his own bones.

He didn't look up when he heard the torch fire up again. Couldn't.

Stiles started to keen even before the heat got close, because now he could see. He could tell it was coming and would _know_.

_"Please, please, please, please."_

He screamed like a gunshot.

It hit Derek in the chest. The heart. Stole the air from his lungs and the strength from his limbs. Because he could not help. Could not save him.

The smell and the sound ripped open old failures.

And when Stiles finally cried his name in agony, Derek broke.

Tears slid from the corners of his eyes.

Ariston pressed something cold to his skin. A vial. And captured the tears as they came. Derek blinked, empty and disbelieving.

"That's what you wanted?" His voice sounded ragged and alien to his own ears.

Zosimus cut off the torch and smiled. "The contents of tears change with their cause." He shrugged.

He had told the truth. Rage and sorrow.

Derek could hear Stiles's heart beating fast, so fast, but he looked wrong, too white. Derek needed him to open his eyes. Just open his eyes.

"Zosimus!" Someone yelled from outside and came bursting through the door, panting. "Zosimus. There's"—he gestured wildly—"there's a hunter. Outside. He demands to see you. He says he wants to trade for the human."

Zosimus glanced at his assistant. "Do we have enough?"

Ariston held up the vial to the light and then nodded.

"And what does this hunter think he has to trade?"

The new hekalus glanced at Stiles and then back to Zosimus, concerned. "The banshee and a true alpha, for the boy. Unharmed."

Zosimus's face passed through surprised to impressed, and then darkened. "Alive will have to do." He checked the clock on the wall. An hour before midnight. "Looks like we have time. Tell the hunter to bring them in."

The hekalus shifted from foot to foot. "Sir. He demanded to see you. Personally. _Outside._ "

Zosimus arched an eyebrow.

"It—they are very rare, sir," the nameless hekalus said, clearly excited by the prospect.

Zosimus narrowed his eyes. "Did he say why he was so interested in the boy?"

The hekalus nodded. "Because, sir, it is his son."

 

**

 

Scott knelt on the cold asphalt, his hands bound behind his back and the tip of a crossbow bolt touching his hair. He kept his head bowed and exchanged a look with Lydia, who shivered on her knees beside him.

Sheriff Stilinski stared hard at the entrance to the agora. He couldn't see it, anymore, strictly speaking. Solid objects had lost their substance, gone dark in his new vision. What he saw instead was like colored wind, watercolors on black velvet forming the outlines of familiar shapes. The wolves all swirled with the color that lit their eyes—distinct edges but indistinct features. Green and blue lines meandered through the ground like veins branching off from the thick river of color that he could see a few blocks away. The door to the agora bled out tendrils of yellow, sickly light that swirled over its surface.

If he aimed the crossbow at something glowing, the sights cut black shapes into the light, allowing him to aim.

The gear that he'd borrowed from Chris to look more the part of a hunter brought back memories, some of it muscle memory that altered the way he stood, the way he watched. Soldiers never really completely come home. He made a quick scan of the empty lot, and it gave him the chance to check on the Argents' SUV with Isaac hiding inside. Pulling up in a police cruiser seemed like the wrong way to make an impression, and Chris kept a spare set of keys by the front door. (Isaac's glee at learning to hot wire a car had been instantly crushed.) John couldn't see any yellow light in the car, which he hoped meant the hekaloi couldn't see Isaac either. Ethan and Aiden had stayed back further up the block, holding themselves in reserve until they were needed.

So here he stood. Shouting at a yellow door.

"You're testing my patience! Either someone—"

More yellow light flared from the doorway, and something white emerged with a green swirl pumping out magic from its chest.

"You wish to speak to Zosimus?"

"If that's who's in charge!" He had to shout to be heard over whatever magic they had laid on the area; the hekalus, it seemed, did not.

"Would you like to come in?"

"You took my son! I think we'll do this right here! And if I'm not happy with how I find him, you're not gonna like what happens to your true alpha!" He shoved the bolt against Scott's skull, and Scott let his eyes flash red. The hekalus made an aborted reach in Scott's direction.

"Zosimus is coming. We—patience, hunter. We do not trade in public like this. It is unheard of. He was reluctant to come."

"Trust me. This is me being patient," the Sheriff said, more to himself than anyone.

For a minute, no one moved, except Lydia who shivered and couldn't quite hold back tears of fear.

Then the door opened and a bulbous flare of white light came through, roiling like the surface of the sun. It threw off flares that arched out into the air around it, and John had to squint to keep the pain from overwhelming him. That _had_ to be Zosimus. And embedded in his chest, just like the other, was a green swirl. Another hekalus came out the door behind him. Three targets. He adjusted his shoulders and started through the first mantra.

"Hunter!" Zosimus called, his voice filling the air, banishing the magic that kept everthing muffled. "Or should I say, Sheriff? Your son told us you would be coming. He did not mention you would bring us gifts."

 _Dammit, Stiles_.

John slowed his breathing. "Well. I have to admit. You being Greek, I did like the irony."

He stared at the green light on Zosimus's chest so he wouldn't blink, and then with a quick flick brought his weapon up and fired.

 

 

The bolt hit Zosimus in the chest, and Scott flew into action. He snapped the bonds on his wrists, clawed off the ones on Lydia, and rushed her back toward the car. Isaac burst from the SUV and started for the hekalus on the right. Scott spun and ran at the one on the left, that had appeared suddenly at the Sheriff's side.

Scott leapt and tackled the suited man in the chest, sending them both sprawling. He tumbled off and came up on his feet, crouched low. Between blinks the hekalus appeared in front of him and landed a punch to Scott's jaw that shattered bone. He dropped from the shock of it and spit blood. Behind them, the Sheriff ran for cover behind the SUV.

More hekaloi poured from the door, placing themselves in front of Zosimus, who had lost his glamor. He looked like a mountain of rags and stretched higher into the sky than a human should.

Scott howled a signal and scrambled to his feet. He could see the top of Isaac's head over a few hekaloi in suits and raced to join him. John had already shot another medallion out, so Isaac swung his claws at a brown burlap cloak and black bindings. He missed and took a hit to the face. As he staggered, Lydia shouted from behind for him to duck.

He ducked.

Just as Scott reached them, the hekalus exploded into flames, and Scott had to jump back to keep from colliding.

Something hit his knees from behind.

He twisted as he fell and clawed the yoga pants woman across the face. The glamor bled, then healed itself, and Scott couldn't untangle his limbs quickly enough to get away.

Aiden launched himself off the hood of the car and into a full body tackle, throwing yoga pants to the ground and rolling to a stop.

The burning hekalus shrieked and spun, bringing a new stench into the world as its binding burned off and monstrous flesh bubbled. Isaac steeled himself and ran at it. Movement flickered around him, but he kept focus. The fire had almost burned itself out, so he aimed for the throat. A quick slash, and he felt his claws slice into flesh. They came back covered in red blood, and he had a split second to watch the black form fall.

He glanced up at pandemonium. The Sheriff had hit a few of the hekaloi, turning them into their real selves. Aiden and Ethan each took on one, while Scott ran interference with the ones whose glamor was intact. They all bled. And at this rate, they were going to lose. Isaac heard pounding on metal and saw the Sheriff beating on a door opposite the agora entrance. He rushed to his side.

"I need to get higher!" John shouted at him and pointed to the windows on the third floor.

With a nod, Isaac shoved his claws into the door and ripped it from its hinges. He turned and joined Scott in keeping down the ones who still looked like people in suits, beating a few with the remnants of the door before they tore it from his hands.

Scott shouted for Lydia to keep throwing the bombs, and a second later, the black form breaking Aiden's arm erupted in fire. Too many still had their glamors. Scott panted, assessed, and threw himself at hekaloi already engaged with his pack. He grabbed them from behind, pinned their arms, and prayed that the Sheriff would recognize an opportunity.

He wasn't disappointed.

 

 

**

 

After Allison left him by the door, Chris had made another circuit around the agora, scouting for any more all-seeing eyes and, more importantly, any good places to leave a small explosive charge. They weren't sure if mistletoe would have any effect, but better to try and fail than not try. He only had six charges and spaced them as evenly as he could. He watched through the window of the healer's shop as Allison returned and then went out to meet her and the hekalus. She gave him a single nod. They were here. He fell into line behind her and followed them back into the sex shop, keeping a silent, respectful distance.

Allison needed to learn to haggle better, but they'd brought enough cash to pay half upfront. Half when the hekaloi deemed their property in good enough condition to not tack on fees for damages. The hekalus agreed to come find them when the werewolf would be ready, and so they were free to wander around more until it was time.

The Argents huddled themselves in the dark end of the market, pressing into the unlit corners around the shops near the basement door. Isaac had sent Allison a text letting her know that they had called out Zosimus, so the big boss should be out of the way any minute. She'd wondered how they'd done it but didn't ask for details. Instead they hid themselves in the shadows and waited.

It wasn't long before the basement door opened and two hekaloi came out, one wearing a lab coat and the other a dark suit.

"A true alpha, sir! It's been centuries!" the suit said.

The one in the lab coat replied, "Be calm, Krakos. Your enthusiasm might make him ask for more."

"Yes, Zosimus, of course. I just—"

"I know . . ."

Allison and her father waited without breathing for them to round the corner and then slipped out of their hiding places. The basement door opened on silent hinges, and they were in.

 

 

 _A true alpha and a banshee_. The pack had come demanding Stiles.

They had not come demanding him.

Derek didn't think Scott would leave him to die, but he couldn't be sure. Not truly sure.

At least one of them would make it out.

The hekalus Ariston stood in front of a counter in the corner carefully applying a label with a date and time to the vial of tears he had collected.

That would be his future, parceled into containers neatly labeled with dates and times.

The door suddenly slammed open, and arrows streaked black through the air, followed quickly by Chris Argent and Allison. Ariston made a startled cry and turned, and got another arrow in the throat. He staggered and started to pull the shafts from his flesh.

 Allison sliced the leather band holding Derek's head down and pulled the pin that kept his wrist locked. She loosed another arrow into Ariston, pinning his hand to the wall, and then pulled the pin closest to her that held Derek's ankle.

Derek hurried to undo the other pins on his own, sliding down to the ground as he was freed. He watched Chris pull the pins on Stiles.

"No, don't!" Derek shouted.

But Stiles had already come free. He slid to the ground and shrieked as his ruined feet touched the floor. Stiles crumpled into a shaking heap, whimpering and trying to bite back the sound. Chris stared down, startled, and Derek shoved him out of the way.

"Stiles, look at me!" He held his face in both hands. Stiles blinked at him. "I'm gonna carry you, okay? But I need to keep a hand free, so I need you to hold on. All right? Can you do that?"

He was white as a sheet and sweating, but he nodded.

Derek turned and pulled Stiles's arms around his neck. He hooked his hand around one thigh and hoisted Stiles onto his back. A second later, black veins spidered up Derek's arm as he siphoned out some of Stiles's pain. It was enough that Stiles could hook his ankles together to hold on.

For a second, everyone forgot about Ariston pinned to the wall.

When Chris turned, the hekalus stood behind Allison, and there wasn't even time to shout. His eyes widened, and she knew. She dropped, spun, and sank one of her daggers into the thing's thigh. Chris shot it in the forehead. And Allison raked two daggers from groin to neck as deep as they would go. She pulled the blades back and kicked the thing away before its black insides poured out all over her.

"C'mon!" Chris shouted and ran out into the hallway.

Allison looked at Derek. "Go!" And then followed him.

Stiles flailed in Allison's direction. "Gimme a knife."

She stared up at him. "What?"

"Give me. A knife!" he said, dark eyes blazing.

She handed him one of the ring blades, and he clutched it with a death grip.

"Allison!" Chris shouted.

Two shots sounded, and Derek saw the guards from before running down the hallway at them, their swords flashing. "Go!" He shouted at Allison and leaned against the wall to give her room. She slipped by, pistol-bow drawn, and fired. The woman hekalus caught the bolt in the shoulder and paused to look at it with disgust. The leader bore down on Chris.

The third . . .

Derek blinked, eyes darting around.

"Derek!" Stiles cried and slashed downward.

Derek spun, his claws cutting across the width of the hallway. He hit the leader's arm, diverting the tip of his sword, and swung his fist at the man's wrist, driving it into the wall. The hekalus dropped his sword but followed through on the turning momentum with punch to Derek's face. Derek fell against the wall, Stiles's unsteady weight knocking him off-balance. Stiles switched the knife to his other hand and lunged, catching the hekalus in the throat. He opened a gash that zipped itself shut almost as quickly as it had opened, but it was enough to give Derek time to recover.

He turned to run, but the hekalus appeared in front of him. He sank his claws into its chest, turned, and threw it down the way they'd come.

"Don't blink!" Allison shouted.

"What?" Derek turned to look at her, panting.

"They can't do that if you look at them. Don't. Blink."

"I see it!" Stiles said. "Go, I can see it!"

Derek stared at the hekalus as it got up and started running back at them. They couldn't win a fight like this.

"We need to run!" he bellowed.

Chris shot a few more rounds, pressing the hekaloi back, and Allison shot arrows through them pinning them to the wall.

They made a break for the stairs.

Derek turned from the hekalus and ran. He closed his hand around Stiles's leg tighter and drew as much pain into himself as he could stand. He rounded the corner into the stairwell.

Stiles jumped, and Derek almost fell forward.

"What—"

"He's—"

"Duck!" Allison's command cut clarion through their confusion, and Derek dropped forward, holding them in a plank position over the stairs.

Allison's bow zipped in rapid succession, and when Derek turned, the hekalus looked like a pin cushion wriggling against the far wall.

Chris had his hand on the door knob. "Get ready to hold your breath."

"What?" Derek stared at him.

"Oh God," Stiles moaned still watching the hekalus along with Allison.

"Mistletoe. Just . . . deep breath. Keep running."

Derek stood as though Stiles was no weight at all.

"Ready?" Chris asked.

Derek nodded.

Chris hit a button on a small box on his belt, and the room beyond the door shook with sudden tremor.

And then they went.

Chris led, two pistols out and firing at anything that moved. He squinted at the fine mistletoe dust in the air and never broke stride. They moved like a well-trained unit, maneuvering around corners with precision while keeping each other covered. Either all the hekaloi were already outside or they hated mistletoe more than anyone might have guessed, because they made it to the exit with no real resistance.

And burst into the outdoors to smoking calamity.

Swathes of asphalt flamed, filling the dark sky with smoke that glowed red and yellow. Burnt bodies littered the ground, and they swerved around them as they ran. The pack had Zosimus in a semi-circle, his cloak fluttering out around him. He stamped one foot on the ground. The copper bells rang. Every time a werewolf charged forward to attack, he sounded the bells and knocked it back, as though punching it in the gut. Lydia hurled another bottle, but that too went skittering wildly as the energy from the sound of the bells knocked it away.

Allison and her father joined the ring around the hekalus, holding their weapons at the ready. Derek eased back into the darkness, carefully wrapping his free hand around Stiles's other leg to give him a break from holding himself up.

"You're outnumbered!" Scott said, his voice thrumming with power as his pack became whole.

"You can't kill me," Zosimus replied, and he threw a bolt of invisible power at Ethan, tossing him back into the metal railing at the far side of the lot. Aiden twisted with pain and bared his teeth.

"We killed the others."

Zosimus laughed, showing white teeth. "They weren't Hekate's high priest."

Stiles curled himself close to Derek's ear and whispered something holding out Allison's knife.

"So you think you can hold all of us off? For how long?" Scott called. He charged forward, until a stamp of Zosimus's foot bounce him back.

Derek took the knife, letting Stiles do the work of holding himself up, and slipped soundlessly back toward the door into the agora. His route brought him around Zosimus's back, opposite the rest of the pack, and he crouched to stay in shadow. He looked at Scott and flashed his eyes blue. Scott's eyes, ever so briefly, flamed out and then returned. Derek drew back, aimed, and threw the knife like pitching a baseball.

The whole motion happened in silence.

Zosimus grunted in surprise as the knife sank into his flesh, slicing through a few ribbons of black linen as it went.

In his moment of distraction, Allison fired an arrow into his chest, and Scott made a single diving leap toward him.

Derek gathered Stiles up again and ran, while Scott sliced the linens from Zosimus's chest with a roar, revealing chalk-white flesh. The hekalus kicked him off with impressive strength and clutched at the torn bandages as he got to his feet. With so many eyes on him, he couldn't rhipēt and stumbled back toward the door. Allison fired another arrow, her father a few more bullets.

"You're not getting away!" Scott roared and chased after him.

Zosimus slipped through the door and slammed it shut. Scott ripped it open a second later and ran in after him. He came back out panting and confused.

"Scott?" Allison called.

He looked at her and his face shifted back to normal. "It's gone. There's just—there's nothing there."

For a moment, everyone was silent. Fires sent up smoke around them.

"Stiles?" The Sheriff's voice rang out from somewhere near the front of the SUV. Everyone turned to see him crawling forward, one hand on the bumper and the headlights bright in his face. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and looked up aimlessly. "Where's my son?"

"Dad?" Stiles pulled himself higher on Derek's back, and Derek carried him closer.

John reached out a hand, searchingly, and didn't look at either Stiles or Derek as they approached.

"Dad?" Stiles asked again, this time in alarm. "Scott, what's wrong with my dad?"

"It's—he's gonna be blind for a while," Scott replied, scratching at his head.

Stiles squeaked. "What?"

"He—" Scott cut himself off. "Derek, you're bleeding."

Derek shot him a look. "What? No I'm not." But Scott was pointing, and Derek twisted to look at his shirt, darkened with blood. He frowned. "But that's not—"

Scott was at his side lifting up Stiles's shirt. "Oh my God."

Allison drew closer and gasped, and John sat up, alert. "What?"

Stiles gave them all confused looks and twisted to look at his side. "What are you guys—"

"Don't!" Scott smacked him on the head. "Don't move! I'm calling my mom."

"Scott, I feel fine."

Chris came over, his face a stone, and then looked at Derek. "Get him in the car."

"Will someone tell me what's going on!" John got to his feet, and Isaac wrapped a hand around his arm.

"We need to get back to Lydia's car," Isaac said.

John's face crumpled as he turned to his voice. "How bad?" he whispered.

Isaac squeezed his arm. "I don't know. Bad."

 

 

Derek brought Stiles to the side of the SUV. "Scott! Go around the other side. Help me get him in. Make sure you keep a hand on him."

"Guys, seriously—"

"Shut up!"

Gently as he could, Derek offloaded Stiles onto the seat. Scott pulled from one side and Derek pushed from the other, try to keep him as flat as possible. Stiles had to bend his legs up toward the ceiling to fit lying down. Scott siphoned off his pain while Derek ran around to the other side and slipped into the seat. He set Stiles's head on his leg and pulled the pain out of him through both hands.

Scott jumped in the front seat and Chris peeled out of the parking lot. Scott turned in his seat, staring at Stiles with his big, worried eyes.

Stiles scoffed. "You guys, I don't know what you're so worried about I feel fine."

"You're not fine," Derek said in a stern voice, tense from worry and the secondary pain.

"Well, I feel—”

Derek cut off some of the siphoning, and Stiles gasped. He beat a fist against Derek's leg.

"Asshole!"

"You're not fine," Derek repeated. "Scott, hold his arm."

They shared the pain while Derek tore Stiles's sliced shirt pressed the wad of fabric against the wound that opened like lips across his side, trying to stanch the heavy flow of blood.

"Just stay awake, okay?" Scott said, trying not to look at the growing smears of red on Derek, on the seats.

Stiles's breaths started to quicken. "Okay . . ." He locked eyes with Scott. "Scotty?"

"Yeah?"

Terrified tears filled Stiles's eyes. "I think . . . it's getting harder to breathe."

Derek's chest hollowed out, and he buried one of his hands in Stiles's hair. "Drive faster!"

He and Scott stared at one another, and Chris slammed on the gas, blowing through every red light between them and the hospital.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Melissa had the trauma team waiting for them.

Scott opened the car door, and strangers slipped Stiles from Derek's blood-slicked hands. As they arranged him on a gurney, Derek kept pressing between people trying to make contact with bare skin.

"What happened?" Melissa demanded of her son.

Scott just stared at her with wide panicked eyes.

"Derek?" She turned to him.

"One of them had a sword," he said, sounding distant and dull to his own ears.

Melissa grimaced. "Honey, you have to let him go."

Shock jolted Derek into looking at her. "What?"

She tugged at his wrist. He'd managed to lock his hand around Stiles's arm.

"You have to let go," she said again.

"He hasn't felt it," Derek rasped the words out, pitched so only she could hear. "I've taken the pain the whole time. He doesn't _know_."

All her compassion seemed to focus in on him. "I understand. We'll give him something. You have to let go."

He did, and left a bloody handprint. Stiles arched and moaned, and Derek had to look away.

People swarmed as they wheeled him into the ER, taking measurements, attaching tubes. Derek and Scott kept pace. "You have to watch his feet," Derek heard himself say. "They burned him." As though that were the greatest of their worries. Melissa touched his arm and nodded at him, then joined the mass of nurses and doctors.

The gurney never stopped moving. They went straight from the ER doors up to the OR. Chris managed to find them and followed them up. At the last possible moment Melissa turned.

"Scott, you have to stay."

"Mom."

"Honey, you have to stay." She touched his face and kissed him on the forehead.

Scott's voice shook. "Don't let him die." Her face crumpled, but she didn't make the promise. "You saved Danny, mom, you _have_ to save Stiles."

There weren't words, so she pulled him into a hug instead. A few paces back, Derek stood, blood-soaked and silent, watching and surrounded by ghosts. Melissa exchanged a look with Chris, and he went to take a seat in the little waiting area. As she let Scott go, the elevator door opened and the rest of the pack emerged.

Sheriff Stilinski clung to Isaac's arm in a way that made it clear he was being led. Scott turned, and Melissa rushed forward.

"John?"

"How bad?" He turned toward her voice, eyes searching.

She frowned at him and looked at Isaac for an explanation.

"He can't see."

"Temporary problem. How's—"

"I don't know yet. They just took him into the OR. The cut was deep. There's a lot of blood, and a lot to repair. But the surgeon's just having a look now."

John's face flooded, and he reached in her direction. She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed.

"I'm gonna go in. And I'll be back when I have news."

He bit the insides of his lips and nodded, squeezing her hands hard before letting go. Isaac brought him to the chairs in the waiting area and kept a hand on his arm while they waited. Allison and Aiden took chairs on either side of Lydia.

“He’s going to be fine,” Lydia stated in a calm voice, looking at Allison with wide eyes. “I can tell.”

Allison’s face crumpled a little with doubt. “Lydia . . .”

Lydia sniffed and extracted her hand from Aiden’s to wipe her forehead, smearing soot. “We didn’t just find bodies,” she said in a husky whisper. “I _know_.” Allison took her other hand, quieted, and tried to look convinced.

Ethan held his aching ribs and sat alone.

Scott turned to watch his mom jog down the hallway and through the double doors. And that's where he stayed. Rooted in the middle of the hall, staring at the closed doors that had swallowed his brother. He didn't cry. Didn't feel much of anything except the conviction that he was right where he should be and that moving might shatter everything. That if he moved or cried or spoke, it would be a curse that took Stiles away. He didn't respond to Allison touching his hand. Or notice when Derek slipped away and returned an hour later no longer soaked in blood.

What he did do, however, was pray. He didn't even really believe in God, but he said it over and over—the only word his mind could form. _Please. Please, please, please, please, please._

The nursing staff stopped asking him to take a seat.

Three hours after they had wheeled Stiles through the doors, Scott saw his mom's face weaving in and out of view through the small glass window. She looked tired, and his heart started to race.

She pushed through the doors and tore the cap off her head with heavy exhale.

_Oh God. Oh, God . . ._

And then they locked eyes, and she slowly, wearily smiled.

Without warning, Scott collapsed. His knees went weak, and he just dropped to the floor and started to cry with crystal, clear relief.

All John heard was sudden sobbing, and he started and paled. A small "No" escaped him, but Isaac shook his arm. "No, it's okay."

"Melissa?" John called her name and stood up, fear and hope fighting in his expression.

She touched Scott's shoulder as she passed by him and went straight to the Sheriff to pull him into a hug.

"It's okay," she said, crying a little herself. Everyone crowded in close around them, and she pulled back, just holding his arms. "It's okay. The surgeon was able to patch everything up. We've treated and wrapped the burns. He's in recovery now."

John laughed once and pulled her back into a hug. "Thank you," he said with a warble of tears before letting her go.

Scott joined the circle, wobbling a little. His face was still red and wet. "Can we see him?"

She gave him a serious look. "In a few hours. The anaesthetic will take awhile to wear off."

"He doesn't have to be awake, I just . . ."

She nodded. "Technically, no, but I can get a couple of you in. The rest of you should probably go home."

Isaac slipped his hand around the Sheriff's elbow. "Do you want me to—"

John patted his hand. "It's okay. You can head home."

"I'll take him," Scott said, and Isaac nodded at them both.

Everyone else but Derek shuffled off, discussing the most efficient way to deliver everyone to the right house. Scott gave Derek a long enigmatic look but didn't say anything or question his presence. He followed silently when Melissa started leading them toward recovery.

"So, is anyone going to explain to me how you ended up blind?" she asked, bumping against John lightly.

He sighed, and Scott laughed a little. "I'll tell you tomorrow."

 

**

 

The room was dim, but not dark, and smelled of fresh antiseptic. Stiles looked small in the bed, tucked in tight as he was. They had him elevated, which Scott had learned years ago was to help people heal. Scott led the Sheriff to the chair right by the bed and scooted a second one up next to him.

"How does he look?" John asked as he moved his hands searchingly over the blankets. He found his son's arm and moved down until he could press those long fingers between his palms.

"Peaceful," Scott said after a slight pause. "He's got a bruise on his face." He inhaled through his nose. "Doesn't smell like infection. Although that'd be pretty fast if he did."

John nodded and rubbed his top hand in slow circles a few times before setting Stiles's hand back down. He sat for a minute saying nothing and then lifted his head. "Derek?"

"Sir?" Derek replied from the corner near the door, and the Sheriff turned in his general direction with a frown.

"Little far away, aren't you?"

"I. Umm . . ." _Didn't know if you'd let me get closer? Didn't know if I was welcome?_

Sheriff Stilinski cocked his head, trying to puzzle out the non-response, and then sighed. "Might as well pull up a chair," he said.

Derek's gaze flicked to Scott, and Scott returned a sad grin.

He moved the side table out of the way and placed the last chair in the room on the opposite side of the bed. He sat and tried to ignore the weight of unasked questions that squeezed down on his heart. After awhile, Derek touched Stiles's arm and started to siphon off some of the pain in his body, just to feel like he was helping. Even though Stiles couldn't feel it. Scott watched him and nodded like he understood.

Their silence struck like pins, a slow gathering tide of guilt and anguish. And he wished they would say something. Ask. Accuse. Anything to break the tension tearing him in two.

"You haven't asked," Derek said finally, when he couldn't stand it anymore.

John turned toward him, frowning a little.

"Asked what?" Scott replied.

" _Why?_ Why _him_. You haven't asked." If he sounded a little desperate and incredulous, he didn't care.

Scott's brows knit together, while the Sheriff's evened out.

"Does it matter?" John asked softly.

Derek just stared at him, his whole being screaming that yes, yes it did matter.

John went on, "He's alive. What—what more could I need to know?"

"But it's my fault!" He didn't mean to yell and pulled his emotions back. "Why are you even letting me stay?" He couldn't look at them when he asked, instead focusing on Stiles's face, like it had been much longer than a day since he'd seen it.

Sheriff Stilinski drew a long, deep breath and sighed it all out. "You got ambushed and kidnapped, and neither of those things are your fault."

Sorrow burned in Derek's eyes. "I couldn't save him," he breathed. "Stop them."

Scott leaned forward, the motion enough to get Derek to look at him. "That doesn't make it your fault." Whatever strange blood may be between them, for that one moment, Derek could feel Scott's sincerity and struggled to take it in.

They fell back into silence and for a few hours dozed lightly. Stiles came to a little before sunrise, groaning before he managed to open his eyes. Scott elbowed the Sheriff awake, and Derek sat straighter in his chair.

"Hey . . ." Stiles said. He sounded hoarse and drowsy.

"Stiles." His father said it like a prayer and gripped his arm.

The corners of Stiles's mouth turned up, and he shifted his gaze. "Scotty."

Scott smiled like sunshine. "Hey, man."

And then Stiles glanced over at Derek, who hadn't said anything, and his grin broadened. Derek ducked his head a little and grinned back.

"Guys, if you don't mind giving me a couple minutes?" John asked.

Scott gave him a pat on the shoulder, and he and Derek cleared out. Not that they couldn't hear everything from the hallway, but the pretense mattered.

John traced until he could hold his son's hand between his own.

"You know I hate hospitals," he said.

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

John's voice grew thick, and his eyes filled with tears that he fought to keep back. "Can you please not make a habit of this? For me?"

"Dad."

He sucked in a breath and squeezed on Stiles's hand. "It almost killed me when your mother died, and if you—" The words caught in his throat. "If anything happens to you, it'll finish the job."

"Dad . . ."

"I just can't. I-I can't . . ."

A tear streaked down Stiles's cheek. "I know." The drugs made it difficult to form complex thoughts, so he just held on as tightly as he could.

John let go of his hand and patted his way up his son's body a few times until he had Stiles's cheek in his hand. He leaned over carefully to kiss his forehead just near the tips of his fingers.

"Still blind," Stiles muttered.

"Still blind," his father confirmed.

Stiles frowned up at him. "That sucks."

John huffed a laugh. "Yeah. I can't see and you can't walk. It'll be great." He dropped back into his seat and yawned.

"You should sleep," Stiles said, yawning himself.

The Sheriff smirked. "You shouldn't be so bossy."

"I'm sick. Get to be bossy."

John rolled his eyes and called in the direction of the door. "Scott? Come on back in."

The door opened a second later, and Scott led the Sheriff out into the hallway, then to the waiting area. "My mom's shift ends in a few minutes, so we can take you home. I just wanna—"

John waved him away, nodding.

Scott slipped back into Stiles's room.

"Still awake?"

"Mmm? Yeah. I think—I think they just gave me more drugs, cuz I . . ." He hummed happily.

Scott grinned at him. "Yeah. I think it's morphine." He sat in the closest chair.

"Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for saving us . . ."

Scott smiled. "Wasn't just me. It was everyone."

Stiles shrugged and smacked his lips. "Yer a good alpha."

"I don't know about—"

"Saved us! Makes you good."

Scott chuckled. "Well. Thanks for not dying."

Stiles nodded a lot and made a pleased sound. "You gotta take care of my dad, 'kay? With the—" He flopped a hand around in front of his face, and Scott laughed a little again.

"I will."

Stiles's eyes fell shut, and for a second Scott thought he might have fallen back asleep, but then he frowned.

"What?" Scott asked him.

"Di . . . Derek leave?" He cracked open his eyes again.

Scott smiled fondly. "No. He's in the hallway." Stiles looked pleased at that. Scott nudged his shoulder. "I'm gonna go take your dad home."

"Mmhmm. Good Scott. Come back?"

Scott chuckled. "Tomorrow." He squeezed Stiles's shoulder and left. He found Derek leaning against the wall opposite the room with his arms crossed, staring at the floor.

"He wants to see you," Scott told him, even though they both knew Derek could hear the whole conversation.

Derek lifted his gaze from the ground, and Scott gestured with a nod of his head toward the door before going to find Sheriff Stilinski and rounding up his mom.

Derek stared at the door for a few seconds and then kicked himself away from the wall and went in, closing the door as quietly as he could in case Stiles had already fallen asleep. He slid into the close chair and listened to the slow but steady beat of Stiles's heart, the restful rhythm of his breathing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on listening to these signs of life. They'd come close to death a lot, the two of them. But this time—this time was different. This time had Stiles's blood slippery on his hands, caking his skin. This time he'd been tortured simply for being something—some _one_ —Derek had accidentally cared about. Not even an action of his own. He existed. They tortured him for it. Because everyone around Derek gets hurt.

"Stop that," Stiles said, his voice a breathy creak.

Derek looked up at him. "What?"

"Yer face."

His scowl deepened in confusion. "Stop my face?"

Stiles lifted his hand and managed to plant a finger on Derek's eyebrows, narrowly missing poking him in the eye. Derek took his wrist in hand and moved his arm back down to the mattress.

"I can't," he whispered.

"Bull."

His chest ached with the need to say it, for someone to be angry about it. "They tortured you because of me. To get to me. To _upset_ me!"

Stiles turned his hand so he could hold Derek's fingers and tried to focus through the haze of pain meds. "They _sucked_ ," he said carefully, enunciating, and sagged from the effort.

Derek stared at him a second and then huffed. He settled his hands on Stiles's forearm and started to draw off the pain, wondering if it would make a difference. Stiles's hooded eyes flashed, and his whole body flexed.

"Whoa." He shivered and stared at Derek like he'd invented coffee.

"Better?"

"Dude." He took a second to search for words. "So much better." He laid back for a second, humming and blissful, and then rolled his head to the side so he could look at Derek without lifting his head. Without warning, he started wriggling, pushing toward the far side of the bed and trying to pull his bandaged feet through the tightly wrapped blankets.

Alarmed, Derek gripped his arm hard. "Stiles, stop! What are you doing? Stop!"

Panting, Stiles looked down at the expanse of open bed, up at Derek, and then back down. He patted the mattress.

"No."

"But I made space!"

"You need to rest."

"I will."

Derek scowled. "They'll kick me out."

"Maybe. I don't care." He dropped his head to the pillow and gazed at Derek with drowsy, pleading eyes.

Derek sighed. "Fine. But I have to let go for a second."

Stiles grinned triumphantly and nodded, and Derek released his grip. Stiles groaned a little, but the grin never left his face.

Derek quickly undid the laces on his boots and kicked them off. Then he climbed carefully onto the bed and tried to find a way to wrap himself around Stiles without actually touching him. He settled for letting Stiles use his arm as a pillow and siphoning off his pain through their linked hands.

Stiles stared down toward the foot of the bed. After a minute, he started to convulse with what Derek quickly figured out to be restrained laughter.

"What?"

"Ow." Stiles bit his lips to try to contain himself.

 _"What?"_ Derek insisted, a little concerned.

Stiles breathed out a few giggles, smiling to himself, and hummed in amusement. "You have socks."


End file.
